


No Clean Slate

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Character Death - Not Sherlock or John, John and Sherlock for the rest, M/M, Mary Isn't A Good Guy, Mary's POV in Prologue, Morally Grey Mary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: Not even Mary's death is enough to wipe her slate clean. Especially when she never died at all. John Watson must face up to his wife's past and keep his daughter safe. He doesn't ask for help, not from anyone.Except Sherlock Holmes.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 526
Kudos: 414





	1. Prologue

The doors to the ambulance slammed closed: two more gunshots in the night. The flash of a needle, the swirl of the antidote, and Mary emerged back into the living world with a slow blink. Instinct would have her upright and reaching for her weapon, but she had trained too long and too hard to succumb. Better to take a moment and bide her time: assess her surrounding and analyse her options.

Memory caught up to her, and a bitter smile wrenched her lips. The aquarium. Sherlock, cocky as always. The so-called villain, Vivian Norbury, and the pistol coughing, just once, in her grasp.

Lifting her head, Mary glanced down at her shirt, satisfied to see the dark stain spreading from the blood pack. Her ribs ached: bruised, no doubt. The bullet had been a blank; she could not risk a vest to protect herself. Even a thin one would be discovered.

A suitable replacement live round, hidden in her hand and treated with a sample of her blood, would be found on the aquarium floor. The evidence would tell the story of Mary’s death, even if it was nothing but a fiction. 

Relying on both John and Sherlock to be adequately distraught had been the biggest risk in this plan. They'd made the whole thing as believable as possible, her and Vivian, but there was still a chance one of them would figure out the deception.

The venom she'd dosed herself with just before Vivian made the shot slowed her heartbeat and respiration right down: the perfect, faltering death scene. A half-paralysed diaphragm made her farewell sound all the more real before the chemicals dragged her under and her vital signs became imperceptible. That state wasn't sustainable, not for long, but the so-called paramedics hadn't hung about. They'd whisked her away, exactly as planned.

Sherlock had faked his own death from the rooftop of Bart's with a few clever tricks and some good connections, and Mary? Well, she was equally blessed.

'You all right?' one of the paramedics asked. She didn't know his name. She never would. This wasn't about making friends. 

With a quick nod, she sat up, waiting for her equilibrium to settle before reaching for the bag she’d instructed her accomplices to bring. 

The ambulance set off, wheels humming over tarmac. There were no blue lights or screaming sirens. Corpses didn't go anywhere in a hurry. Besides, the time for haste had passed. Now, she had to move with care.

Maybe it served her right for believing that her past could stay buried. She should have known it didn't work that way. Especially not for someone like her. There was a special place in hell for traitors, after all. She and Vivian were both professionals in betrayal. Vivian sold state secrets, and Mary? Well, she'd known about _Amo_ for a very long time. She'd been in on that ploy almost from the start.

Vivian wanted wealth; Mary wanted excitement. Amazing, how even being part of AGRA could become boring, in its own way. The money didn't hurt, either. She took her cut from Vivian and did her bit to keep the others in the dark. Or she had done, until it all went pear-shaped.

A bitter little smile cleaved her lips as she thought of Ajay. She had lied to him. To all of them. Vivian might have been the voice of Amo, but Mary? She had been the cold, hard heart of it. Until, one day, even that wasn't enough.

She'd craved something else, something different. Something like normality. She'd used her talents to disappear once more, blending in with the great, seething mass of humanity as she found her way to London. She left the life of Rosamund behind, or so she thought. 

Now, it was Mary she needed to slough away like a snake's skin. It wasn't safe here, not any more. Part of the problem with selling secrets is that you needed a buyer. There was never any shortage, of course, but they could get demanding when their supply dried up. 

Vicious.

She and Vivian had known their days were numbered. They could both feel it in the breeze: the chill bite of the wind coming in from the east. For Mary, the safest thing for her to do was disappear. For Vivian? Well, it was hard to kill someone deeply embroiled in a high-profile legal case. There were too many witnesses for the British government to sweep it under the rug and mete out some private justice. Vivian had made sure of it. She would be in the spotlight for a while, safe beneath the scrutiny of a nation.

Of course, there was a price. For Vivian, her freedom. For Mary, her family. She had to go. Every connection associated with her old life had to be severed.

It was the only way Rosie would be safe.

She swallowed, pressing her hand to her sternum to ease the pain beneath before reaching down for the buttons of her shirt. She stripped piece by piece, indifferent to the paramedic. He didn't stare at her, but he didn't look away either, watching her with clinical indifference as she fought to keep her balance and get dressed in the back of a moving vehicle. 

Every garment was new, from her knickers to her shoes and jeans: tags ripped off and disposed of as she shrouded herself in their anonymity. Even the ambulance didn't technically exist. Its plates pointed nowhere. It had been nothing more than an unmarked van twenty-four hours ago. Now, it was her ride to the start of a new life.

She threw her phone down on top of the bloody clothes, shaking her head as the paramedic offered a replacement. She'd get her own, one she knew had not been tampered with. The last thing she needed was Sherlock Holmes and another GPS device blowing this all away. 

She learnt from her mistakes.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Mary tied her hair back and slipped off her wedding ring. Personal effects would be returned to John later, and she tried not to think about the shock and pain that had carved his face asunder. She tried not to recall the way his hands shook, nor the half-hidden flatness of disbelief in his gaze. Rosie at least, was too young to remember her, too young to mourn her. She left no real scars there, but John?

She pursed her lips. That's why she'd left Sherlock a message: one he couldn't ignore. John would never let anyone help him. It wasn't his way. He had to feel like he was helping others, and if that meant manipulating him out of his grief, then so be it.

Sherlock Holmes would go to hell for John Watson, and Mary would be forgotten.

Just like Rosamund.


	2. Chapter One

Mary was dead.

John Watson frowned down at his clasped hands, trying, not for the first time, to fit those words into his reality. He'd held her, heard her last words, watched the blood spread as the air faltered between her lips. She'd died in his arms, and he... still couldn't believe it.

Denial. It had to be. After the initial shock, his inability to consider the possibility of Mary's passing was the next inevitable step. He was a doctor; he knew about the so-called stages of grief; knew they weren't as linear as everyone liked to make out. There was no real rhyme or reason to it. Yet here he was, being so very textbook.

He shivered, knowing there was nothing that could warm him up again. It felt like his bones were carved of ice, radiating a primordial chill and chasing the life from his frame. It felt like he'd replaced his blood with grave dirt. Maybe he had. He'd spent long enough mourning at tombstones, these past few years.

Funny, it hadn't been like this with Sherlock. Back then, he'd not denied it. He'd not done anything. He had been, for that first little while, completely and utterly numb. Like he'd somehow disconnected from his body and the reality around it. He still lived and breathed, but he'd been vacant, trying to work out how to be part of the world when Sherlock wasn't.

With Mary? 

John shook his head, his lips wrenching in a grimace. Mary was his wife, for fuck's sake. She should matter more. She should be the one he mourned the hardest, yet here he was, still afraid to even admit to himself that she was gone. Not because he thought he would fall apart, but because he feared he wouldn't.

And what did that make him?

He shouldn't even be comparing them, her and Sherlock. His dead wife and the friend who'd come back. He shouldn't be sitting here, wondering how his life had come to this. Married and widowed in the space of less than eighteen months, and now feeling flat and dead inside, not with grief, but a creeping dread he didn't have the strength to name.

Mary had stepped in front of that bullet for Sherlock: Sherlock, who John knew had goaded Norbury to the point of no return. God, he hated him. His arrogance and pride, his fucking fallibility. If not for him, Mary would still be alive.

If not for Mary, Sherlock would be dead.

That thought, more than any other, made John's throat clamp tight around the first bubble of a real sob.

Upstairs, Rosie began to cry. John jumped to his feet, wincing as pain bit into his thigh. He pushed it aside, He didn't have time for that now. Mary was beyond his help, and he couldn't even consider clapping eyes on Sherlock when he was like this: ripped up and torn down by resentment and fear.

No, he would concentrate on Rosie, his daughter, because at least when it came to that he knew what he was doing. She was a known quantity, and for her sake, he'd keep going. Even when it felt like the only one who belonged in the ground was him.

Over the next few days, the tears came. Not in a great flood, like they had with Sherlock, cleaving him in two with their ferocity. They leaked out of him in quiet moments: silent, solemn things. 

He'd cuff them away, lips twisted, feeling he didn't deserve the relief they could bring. He hadn't been good to Mary when he'd had her. He didn't deserve to mourn her like that. A decent husband would not feel the way he did: sad and aching but – at the same time – somehow free. 

God, he hated himself.

He ate when he remembered, which wasn't very often, and caught himself reaching for the whiskey more times than he would like. He always stopped before pouring a glass. He had Rosie to think of, and he was many things, but he'd never be as much of a bastard as his own father. Besides, it was a slippery slope, one that would ruin more than his own sorry life. No, better to avoid the metaphorical crutches where possible.

The real one, however, had made a grim reappearance. His cane became a constant companion as his leg ached and bit at him, pain chewing its way through muscle and tendon and bone. There were some days he felt ancient and rooted, barely able to move. The morning of Mary's funeral was the worst: a closed coffin and the crematorium, the way she had wanted it to be. Ashes buried beneath a plaque. The last little bits of Mary's life turned to dust.

It was there, in that small, secluded part of the graveyard, that John first felt it. Like a cold wind on the back of his neck, the sensation of being observed washed over him. His fingers tightened into a fist over the top of his cane, knuckles knots of bone threatening to cut through his flesh. Bloody Sherlock. It had to be. Of course it was. He never knew how to leave well enough alone.

Yet when he glanced over his shoulder, lips parted in rebuke, there was nothing to see but empty gravel pathways and peaceful stretches of lawn. No lean silhouette observed him from a distance. There was nothing there but the breeze, and John shivered despite himself.

The sensation came upon him more than once. He'd be out getting groceries, randomly putting items in his shopping basket only to find himself half-frozen, his instincts thrilling their warning. Or he'd be at home in his flat and find himself drawing all the curtains to keep out prying eyes. It was paranoia, that was all. A soldier's reflexes driven too high by stress and grief. 

At least, that's what he told himself.

The dreams didn't help. Not Afghanistan. Not any more. No, his mind kept replaying bits and pieces of those two days: of Sherlock falling from Bart's, with John right there to play bloody witness. Of him arriving at the aquarium to find Mary already dying. Sherlock's silence and Mary's words. Blood on the pavement and a spotless floor when Mary was taken away.

_'Promise me.'_

_'Stay where you are.'_

Air rushed into his lungs as he tore himself awake, sweat cooling on his brow and nausea rolling in his stomach. He swallowed back the greasy, sharp taste and tried to ease the way his heart hammered, driven half-mad. It wasn't real. It wasn't, and it was, all at once. Sherlock lived: it had all been a trick. Mary died: she was never coming back. 

God, sometimes he wished he'd never met them. Sherlock and Mary both.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, John curled in on himself, focusing on every rattling breath until, at last, he could taste the air again. Around him, night's gloom lay soft and murky, but he knew he'd find no sleep again. Not after that. Wearily, he got to his feet, shuffling through the empty flat he and Mary shared. She lingered here; a whole life left behind.

More than once he'd considered clearing out some of her things, but it felt too much like accepting she was gone. Which she was, he knew that, but some small part of him felt he should be deeper in his grief; less prepared to move on. He felt like a man without a map, lost in unexpected territory, torn between how he felt and the notion of how he should feel.

Flicking on the kettle, he glanced towards the baby monitor. For now, at least, Rosie slept on, oblivious. The water steamed as he poured it over a teabag. Caffeinated. His only compromise to the fact it was just gone 2am was that he wasn't drinking coffee. He needed it though. The heat. The clarity. Something to root him in the moment and brace him as he faced up to the truth of his situation.

He'd loved Mary.

He'd loved the idea of Mary.

His lips wrenched downwards at the corners. God, she'd deserved better. Back at the beginning, when she'd just been Mary and not part of AGRA; not an assassin; not the person who'd shot Sherlock, he'd been enamoured. She'd seemed like all the "normal" that his life had been missing: a port amidst the storm of Sherlock Holmes reappearing in his life. Not dead after all.

He'd clung to that, back then. Not Mary herself, but the normality of her. She was the counterbalance to all of Sherlock's madness. She was the firm foundation that John relied on.

And then all that turned out to be a lie: a fiction and a fantasy Mary had constructed in the hopes of escaping her past. She'd built a future with John, but had never told him who she was. What she was. If it hadn't been for Sherlock, there was a good chance he'd never have known. Mary wouldn't have volunteered the information, never in a million years. John knew her well enough to believe that. 

Was that when he'd stopped loving her? Properly loving her? When he'd found out that, in the end, she was not who she said she was? It wasn't even the fact that she was an assassin that bothered him. It was that she had lied.

Sherlock, at least, never apologised for who he was – what he was. He didn't try to conceal it, or otherwise make excuses. Mary had done just that, and a love standing on a foundation of lies didn't stand a chance.

John bowed his head over his cup of tea, tears biting at the tired seam of his lashes. He still missed her: her dry humour and her knowing smiles. She understood him – saw through him. She would be brutally honest when he needed it most, and now that was gone. He might not love her as he had once done, but he still cared about her, despite everything. Even if sometimes he did a shit job of showing it.

Now it was too late. All the things they'd never talked about, the stuff he hadn't had a chance to confess – it would all remain unsaid, and he'd have to live with that until his dying day. Maybe, in the end, neither of them had been the person they'd pretended to be.

Wearily, John pushed himself away from the kitchen surface, limping over to his uncomfortable, modern armchair with his tea in his hand. He needed to stop doing this to himself, just for a minute or two. It would be so easy to get mired down and end up with nothing but self-loathing. He didn't deserve anything more, but Rosie did. Rosie deserved the world, and he intended to give it to her, but he couldn't do that like this: broken and sleepless. Alive but torn up inside.

He couldn't move on, but maybe he could find the strength to at least move forward.

* * *

'How are you doing?' Molly asked, bouncing Rosie in her arms. 'You look tired.'

'Yeah, well. Sleep's not easy these days. I can't even blame her.' He tickled Rosie's chin. She squealed in delight, but the answering smile on his face felt alien and strange. 'I need to go back to work. Back to...' He almost said "normal" before swallowing it down. Normal wasn't this life, not for him. Normal was Sherlock and Mary, cases and madness. His own brand of "normal" was something he could never go back to again. 'I need the routine,' he finished lamely. 

'You don't think it's a bit soon?' Molly's brow wrinkled, her dark eyes boring into him. He remembered her back when they first met, timid and overwhelmed by Sherlock's personality. God, she'd changed a lot. Now, she watched him, her chin at a stubborn angle, challenging as only someone he considered a friend would dare. 

'Maybe,' he acknowledged. 'But I can't stay here. I need...' He cleared his throat and shook his head, trying to explain. 'I need something that's just me. Mary's not been at work with me for months, now. Here, she's everywhere.' He pointed his finger at the floor, indicating the flat. 'There, it's just me and my colleagues and my patients.' He gave a single firm nod, wondering who he was trying to convince. Molly looked as doubtful as he felt, one eyebrow lifting in a perfect curve of disbelief.

'And if it turns out I'm talking bollocks, my boss will understand. I just – I need to do something.'

Molly nodded: a slow acknowledgement that he might be right. 'I can watch Rosie tomorrow, and Mrs Hudson said to call her whenever you needed help. I'm sure between all of us we can sort something out.' She pursed her lips, shifting her weight. 'If Sherlock –'

'No.' John held up a finger, running his tongue over his teeth as a nameless surge of something hot and feral rushed through his veins. 'I don't want – I – I can't see him. Not now. Not yet.' He sucked in a breath and shook his head. 'I think he's watching me anyway.' He shrugged, glancing towards the window. 'Even that's too much.'

'I don't think he is. He's –' Molly frowned before casting the rest of her thought away. 'Never mind about Sherlock. You think someone's watching you?'

John winced, wondering what he could say that would not make it sound like he was losing his marbles. 'It's just a feeling. The first time was at Mary's – at the graveyard. I shook it off and ignored it, but recently I've noticed it when I'm just out shopping or in the park with Rosie.'

He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Don't worry about it. It's probably just my imagination. Like I said, I thought maybe it was Sherlock or someone in his network. You know what he's like for keeping tabs on people. He's not so different from Mycroft in that respect.'

Molly reached out, giving John a quick pat on the elbow. 'I'll see what I can find out. If I’m wrong and it is Sherlock, I'll tell him to stop.' 

'No. No, don't. Because if it's not Sherlock and it's just me being – me, then...' he trailed off. 'Don't worry about it.'

Molly gently extricated a strand of her hair from Rosie's mouth, indifferent to her drool as she let out a sigh. 'If you're sure, but John? Remember it's not just you that could be in danger any more. It's Rosie too.'

'And that is why we are keeping well away from Sherlock Holmes,' he said, reaching for his daughter with a pinned-on smile. 'I think he's done enough damage, don't you?'

Molly didn't answer. She just gazed at him, probably seeing far more than he ever wanted to reveal. It was easy to forget how observant she could be, and John swallowed, wishing he could read what was going on inside her head. Instead, he could only wait and bear her scrutiny until, at last, she offered him a wan smile. 

'Just let me know if you need anything else,' she pleaded. 'Or if not me, then Inspector Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. We're all here for you, John. You and Rosie, all right?'

'All right. Thanks, Molly. I'll send you a text about watching her tomorrow?'

'Of course. See you then.'

The door closed behind her. The latch rattled like a cage door, and John swallowed back the tight, panicked feeling of being trapped in his own life: a prison of his own making. He gave Rosie another smile and busied himself with all the things he should be doing: talking to her and playing with her, watching garish cartoons and trying to do anything but let himself think.

Busy. He needed to be busy. It was the only way he'd get through this alive.

* * *

Work helped. The structure gave him something to hang his day around: one patient after the other, prescriptions and paperwork. It was monotonous, but it distracted him from everything going on inside his own head. It would have been perfect, if not for the quiet, pained sympathy of his colleagues and the way they looked at him like he might break into pieces before their very eyes. 

He felt he was disappointing them, somehow. Or that they thought he was being stoic in the face of terrible sadness. He couldn't tell them that all he felt was remorse: for not being more upset, for not grieving as he should, for deep-down being a little bit relieved that Mary was gone. He couldn't say that, not to them and not to anyone. How could he? He could barely admit it to himself.

So he kept his head down and went through life, one foot in front of the other. He didn't see Sherlock, and Sherlock made no effort to get in touch. He didn't know if Molly had said anything; he hadn't asked. Part of him kept expecting Sherlock to show up somewhere – hoped for it, even. 

When it came to Sherlock, his feelings were far more complicated than what he felt about Mary: fury and pain and hope. They were bright and explosive compared to the cobwebs of guilt-guilt-guilt left by his late wife, and John didn't dare face their ferocity. 

Every lunchtime he popped out to the "Gregg's" just down the road. When Sherlock had been gone, everything tasted like ash. That hadn't been a problem this time around, and sometimes a sausage roll was the only thing that could get him through the afternoon. 

John frowned, glaring at the bloke standing on the corner of the street. Hadn’t he been there yesterday? And the day before? He’d not given him more than a passing glance, the first time. There were plenty of people out getting their lunch, after all, but now suspicion took root in John’s mind, flowering into anger and dread. 

Something was off about him. A black flat cap rested on brown hair, and a woollen coat fell to rest at his hips. The clothes beneath were smart; he dressed well, though not as well as Sherlock. The sunglasses covering his eyes were the biggest giveaway. On an overcast day, they stuck out like a sore thumb, and John let his gaze drift over him before he began his walk back to the surgery, lunch in hand and butterflies in his stomach.

He watched his reflection in the windows, looking not at himself but at his surrounding in the backwards images offered by the glass. Pedestrians streamed around him: other workers on their break, shoppers, mums and their toddlers... He paused by a boutique selling ludicrously expensive baby clothes, pretending to examine their wares. An absent-minded bite of the sausage roll filled his mouth, and he chewed it thoughtfully, waiting until the moment he saw what he was looking for.

His so-called admirer, ambling down the other side of the street without a care in the world.

He wasn't just being watched. He was being followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to be starting this project for my Fandom Trumps Hate winner! With any luck I can update every week!  
> Thanks for reading, B xxx
> 
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> 
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	3. Chapter Two

Baker Street echoed around him, a hollow shell he did his best to ignore. Sherlock perched in front of the microscope, staring down the barrel at the slide beneath. Work had become a trial, something to which he had to apply himself. Before, it had come so easily, but ever since Norbury – since Mary – he found himself struggling to answer the call of any case that came his way.

An uncomfortable knot sat low in his guts, just under his navel. Every time he thought of Mary, it would clench, becoming leaden and hollow. He kept remembering the gunshot, the jerk of her body, the pain in her eyes...

Far worse had been the look on John's face as his wife died in his arms: a grey, blank mask carved of nothing but ice. If it had cracked, Sherlock knew what he would see: loathing and blame. It did not matter that Sherlock had returned from the dead. The friendship they had once enjoyed had been forever changed. Not broken, perhaps, but tempered by what had passed between them.

Now Mary was gone, and John would never forgive him.

He let out a tight breath, closing his eyes and resisting the urge to get up and pace. Such restlessness would do him no good. Nothing could help him escape this. It did not matter how often he dove into his mind palace or how many times he examined every angle, he could not find a way back to what had been. Mary lay dead, and Sherlock was to blame.

Beyond the window, Big Ben struck eight in the evening. Darkness drew its steady veils across London's streets, and the knot in Sherlock's belly tightened afresh.

He couldn't give up. That much was certain. Whether John wanted to see him or not, he had to make the effort. Not by text, nor by the dubious intervention of his brother's CCTV surveillance. Being there for a friend, that's what mattered to people, wasn't it? He could wait for John to seek him out, or he could bite the bullet and lay himself open to John's wrath. Like purging a wound, it had to hurt more before it could start to heal.

The chair scraped over the linoleum floor as he got to his feet, striding towards the door and clattering down the stairs. He grabbed his Belstaff off of the hook, slinging it around his shoulders and pulling the wool across himself like armour. Stepping out into the street, he hailed a taxi, giving the driver instructions to John's flat before his courage failed him.

By the time he stood on John's doorstep, he wondered if this had all been a terrible mistake. He could brave John's temper and consider it a worthwhile price to pay, but would John even deign to throw a punch? Had Sherlock merely come here to face that same blank mask and chilling gaze? Would it be better, after all, to give John his space? 

Tentative, Sherlock reached out, rapping his knuckles on the door. A silhouette moved behind the frosted glass. Sherlock's heart surged in his throat, only to rip itself in two – simultaneous relief and disappointment – when it was Molly Hooper who greeted him with dark eyes and a grimacing smile.

Rosie burbled in her arms, oblivious to the turmoil around her. Clean, well-fed and bright eyed, she clapped her chubby hands together at the sight of Sherlock, her little legs kicking as she giggled. Someone, at least, was happy to see him.

'Hi,' Molly murmured, closing the door at her back as if trying to stop their voices from carrying. 

'I just wondered how things are going.' Sherlock matched her low volume even as he glanced over her shoulder. 'If there's anything I can do...'

Her face crumpled, her brow folding as she reached into her pocket, pulling something out and pressing it into his hand. 'It's from John. You don't need to read it now.'

Sherlock frowned at the envelope. Blank. Not even marked with his name, as if John couldn't bring himself to scrawl it on the cheap paper. 'Right.'

'He said he'd rather –' Molly swallowed, her eyes agleam, as if she could barely bring herself to be the messenger. 'That he'd rather have anyone but you.' The strength seemed to leave her, her voice trailing off to a whisper. 'Anyone.'

The pain in his gut sharpened, twisting like a knife as it shot up into his chest, curling barbs around the frightened flutter of his heart. He had expected it: John's avoidance. His anger. Yet somehow, he had convinced himself to hope differently. His eyelashes fluttered, and he swayed where he stood, as if rocked by a physical blow.

Molly reached behind her, pushing open the door and shaking her head, bidding Sherlock a quiet goodbye. She slipped back into the house, leaving him standing on the pavement, tight-lipped and pale.

His arm felt heavy as he flagged down a taxi, burdened by more than the weight of his Belstaff and suit. The letter pressed against his heart, tucked into an inside pocket for safe-keeping. He could not bring himself to read it, not yet. Not out here in the open where the world could see.

Only once he was seated in the back of the car did he dare draw it out again. He turned it over twice in his hand to examine the envelope – utterly unremarkable – before he broke the seal and pulled out the sheet of paper within.

One page. Just one, single-sided page. Should he take that as a good sign? Did it mean something, that John had not poured his heart and his anger out into a veritable tome for Sherlock to read? Did it mean he cared too much, or not at all? 

With shaking fingers, he unfolded the cheap stationary. He took a moment to examine John's penmanship – a doctor's scrawled, pressed hard into the page as if he were carving his message into stone – before he began to read.

_Sherlock. This has to stop. I can't keep doing this – pretending everything you do can be – be forgiven_

_It's not possible. Mary – Mary was my wife – Rosie's mum. Now she's gone – Sherlock – she's never coming back – no matter how much I wish differently. You didn't pull the trigger – but you still killed her. You and your pride. Your arrogance. I can't forgive you. Not for that. Not ever. Leave me alone – leave Rosie alone. Don't come around anymore._

_John_

Sherlock's breath escaped him in a shuddering rush. His emotions roiled, flashing hot and cold. He had known, when Molly handed him the letter, that John would not hold back. As a man he was often a taut wire waiting to snap. On the page, with no repercussions, his blame made itself apparent. There was no nuance, no room for misunderstanding. Sherlock was no longer welcome in his life, and never would be again.

He pursed his lips, ignoring the way the paper shook in his grasp. The words seared themselves into his brain with each pass of his gaze. The confines of the taxi pressed around him, claustrophobic. He tore his eyes away, folding the page and tucking it back into his pocket as he waited for Baker Street to come into view. 

At last, the cab pulled up to the kerb. The door swung open beneath his grasp, disgorging him onto the pavement as he all but threw money at the driver, desperate to be free. The fresh evening air slapped him in the face, and he sucked it in, wrinkling his nose at London's familiar cocktail of car-exhaust and take-away. 

He traversed the short distance to the door of 221 Baker Street on shaky legs. His key scraped the lock plate as he fought his way inside, shutting out the world and casting off his Belstaff. The seventeen steps loomed before him: his own, personal Everest. At their peak lay a flat he had not truly called “home” since his return to London. His domain it may be, but without John, Baker Street remained incomplete: a roof over his head and little more.

He paused on the first step, the wood creaking under his weight as he glanced over his shoulder, back at where his coat hung like a reaper's cowl. Stiffly, moving more like an automaton than a real man, Sherlock reached for it, pulling John's brief missive from the inside pocket. The paper crumpled in his grasp, and he bore it up the stairs and into the flat. 

Perhaps it would have been better to leave it tucked away, but something – some deep, uncertain knowledge – wouldn't allow Sherlock to do so. He needed it with him: a constant reminder.

He inched across the threshold, noting all the small changes that suggested Mrs Hudson had been up here, dropping things off or tidying something. She was restless. Helpless. The same as everyone else in this forsaken situation. He could not blame her the intrusion. 

The balloon, John's substitute, listed in its seat, half-deflated now, withered, much like the man himself.

Turning towards the dining table, something caught Sherlock's eye. A stack of mail, dumped hastily. Mostly junk, but in amongst it was a single padded envelope. White. Non-descript. The kind of thing you could get anywhere.

Tugging it free, Sherlock blinked, reaching inside for the DVD and staring at the two words scrawled in marker on the metal.

**_Miss me?_ **

Perhaps what surprised Sherlock most was his complete lack of an emotional response. A week ago, he would have been exuberant, a man touched with a live wire at the thought of Moriarty's convoluted plans. Now, he could only stare, his heart leaden and sluggish in its beat. What was the point of playing the Game when he had already lost the only thing that mattered?

When he had lost John?

 _"You made a vow. You_ swore _it."_

The memory of John's words struck him like bullets. He recalled the lightning of rage and pain crackling in those eyes; the way he spoke through gritted teeth, as if that bony barricade was all that held back his screams; his fists, clenched as if he longed to lash out, to share his agony with crashing knuckles and thudding bruises.

Sherlock’s vow to protect them – Mary, John and Rosie – may lie broken and bloody, but it lived on still. It had not followed Mary to the grave. Above and beyond everything else, Moriarty was a threat to John and his daughter's safety. One that Sherlock would not allow to find fruition; not as long as breath remained in his body.

He put the DVD in the machine, expecting to see dark eyes and a mad smile. Instead...

Mary.

'I thought that would get your attention,' she chided, soft and friendly, before her expression faltered. 'So, this is in case...' She shifted where she sat, pursing her lips and frowning as if in pain. 'In case the worst happens. If you’re watching, then I'm dead.' 

She said it in a rush, like someone ripping a plaster from a wound to let the blood flow. 'I hope I can have an ordinary life, but nothing's written in stone. My past was full of consequences.' She shrugged, her lips hooking to one side, quick and crooked. 'The danger was the fun part, but you can't outrun things forever.'

Mary looked down at the hands knotted in her lap, her white-knuckles belying the light-hearted veneer in her voice. 'I'm giving you a case, Sherlock. Maybe the hardest one of your career. When – when I'm gone, I need you to do something for me.' All trace of mirth faded from her expression, those murky blue eyes turning flat and serious. 'Save John Watson. Save him, Sherlock.'

She straightened as if she were a soldier on parade, every ounce of her old special forces training bleeding through the angles of her body in boundless, vivid confidence. 'Don’t think anyone else is going to. It’s up to you, but you’re going to need a little bit of help, because you’re not exactly good with people.' She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself. 'Here’s a few things you need to know about the man we both love – and more importantly what you’re going to need to do. 

'John Watson never asks for help. Not from anyone. Not ever. But here's the thing, he never refuses to give it. You can’t save John because he won’t let you. The only way to save John is to make him save _you_.'

She lifted her chin, as if daring him to argue. 'Go to Hell, Sherlock, and let John be the one to bring you back.'

The screen turned black, the soft hum of the speakers adding to the melody of life in 221B. It droned against Sherlock's ears: a slow, steady buzz that set his teeth on edge until he powered down the device and took a deep breath, his thoughts sparking like a shorting circuit.

_Don't look. Don't see._

Hadn't that been his mantra since he got back to London, at least where John and Mary were concerned? Step-by-step, day-by-day, he had turned a blind eye, pretending he couldn't see the secrets they both wore like a shroud. 

In that, Mary had been more honest than John. A bullet to the chest, even one regretted, was fairly conclusive when it came to ripping aside the veil of lies. She had shown him some of what she was: admitted it through actions if not words.

Still, he had chosen not to look, because looking meant seeing, seeing meant observing, and his deductions could well bring the whole edifice of his life crashing down around his ears.

Now, amidst the rubble of a different making, Sherlock could see he had nothing left to lose. 

He dove into his mind palace and allowed his memories to unfurl.

John, in the weeks and months before Mary had died: sleepless nights attributed to more than just a new baby. A gleam in his eye. Increased frequency of glancing at his phone and extra care over his appearance. Conclusion? The promise of an affair. One that had not gone beyond communication, beyond potential, but a return to his risk-seeking behaviour all the same. A foregone conclusion, in Sherlock's opinion. He doubted John would have gone through with betraying his vows. It was not a new lover he sought. It was the thrill of danger. 

Some people may point out that – between Sherlock’s cases and Mary’s vibrant past – there was plenty to put John Watson in peril, and they would be right. However, the intermittent peaks of adrenaline had not been enough to sustain him. Additionally, they had come from Sherlock and Mary: external sources that John had not, in truth, chosen. Not fully. Not truly. Not since the fall from Bart’s.

Oh, he found his way back into the shadow of Sherlock’s footsteps easily enough, but the spectre of deception lingered between them, never forgiven. Mary had been John's normal, and then turned out to be anything but. Again, while John may have chosen Mary as his wife, he had not done so knowing of the trouble her past would bring. 

This – an affair – was John’s. Something he initiated, agreed to, accepted and then ended before it had begun. Yes, Sherlock could see why John would take that step: a form of self-medication against his unacknowledged helplessness.

Sherlock leaned back where he sat, steepling his fingers in front of his face as he considered the evidence of John's unhappiness. The would-be affair was the most obvious. Other, smaller clues wrote themselves about his person in minuscule bids for independence. Riding a bike to work, subtle changes in his fashion and style that Mary had indicated she disliked, his somewhat more reckless behaviour on cases... All of it suggested an element of resistance and a thirst for freedom. One that had only intensified upon the arrival of Rosie.

John adored his daughter, but that did not mean his life had not become a cage.

Then, there was Mary. She had not been lying when she claimed an ordinary life was something she craved. Unlike John, she did not merely say so to conform to some societal expectation. A marriage, a home and a family had been her goal, and she had achieved it. John just so happened to be the most convenient foundation on which to build her future: an easy target.

Sherlock grimaced, shaking his head. It felt unfair to cut Mary's motivations down to the bare essentials, but there was no avoiding it. Love may have had a role, but in the end Mary's driving forces for marrying John had been far more prosaic. She had wanted a husband, and John had needed someone in the wake of Sherlock's "death". They had fulfilled the roles each other needed. For the time Mary and John had together, it had been enough. Would their marriage have survived another five years? Another three?

No, but that did not mean it had not been without its purpose.

Dropping his hands, he smoothed his palms over the hub of his own kneecaps, letting the soft rasp of the expensive fabric soothe him. The light on the DVD player winked out a steady, stand-by beat, mocking him. He scowled at the harmless device, considering its contents. 

Of course, Mary could never have been so successful at her job if she were not well-prepared. She planned in convoluted eventualities, and this, her death, had clearly been one of them. Eminently practical. 

More to the point, her advice was sound. She knew John well enough to know how he would respond to any and all offers of assistance. Especially from Sherlock, who had been instrumental in Mary's end. Her urgings not to give up hope, not to stand idly by, but to ensnare John in their next adventure were, on the surface, exactly what Sherlock wanted to hear.

Perhaps that was why suspicion strafed its fingers over the back of his mind. Mary had been his friend. Against all his own expectations he had liked her, admiring her sharpness of wit and intelligence, but trust? No, they'd never managed that. 

Maybe that was why, even now, he second-guessed what she said. Just because she gave him purpose – gave him hope – didn't mean she was right. Who should he believe? Mary, dead and gone and free of any consequences – or John, alive and lost within the tempest of his own, complicated grief?

The glimmer of John's letter where it lay on the table, a bright white flag of surrender, caught Sherlock's eye. Wearily, warily, like a man reaching for a serpent he knew would only bite him, Sherlock approached it, lifting it from its resting place and unfurling it anew.

Its contents had not changed. Brief and to the point, they were designed to cut like a knife, carving away any uncertainty. There was nothing kind in John's note. Nothing to save Sherlock's feelings; why should there be? 

And yet...

John's skill with language had only improved over the years, honed from amateurish and mediocre into something engaging. Perhaps his emotional state had rendered him less articulate than usual, but the more he looked at the letter, the more Sherlock found himself puzzled by it. 

There were no crossed out words, nothing to indicate things written and then removed. The pressure of the pen didn't vary from one word to the next. At first glance, sentiment scrawled itself plain upon the page, but on closer examination it seemed to be a mask, hiding what lay beneath.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, examining not the words themselves, but the form of the letters, searching for uniformity and anomaly alike. Nothing jumped out at him as unusual. No hints signposted the way to what he might be missing, and he turned his attention instead to the spaces between. 

Holding it up to the light revealed no subtle imprints that could hide another message, and the paper held none of the tell-tale fragrance or texture of invisible ink. No, the only part that gave him pause was one that was easy to overlook. The punctuation.

John was always eager to use dashes in his work to bring a sense of immediacy, but in a handwritten message such as this they were both proliferous and out of place. Now they hoarded Sherlock's attention, clamouring for his focus even as he struggled to understand their relevance.

Mary's knowledge of codes had been the first indication that she was more than she seemed, but her preferences lay in complex ciphers. John was a military man: a doctor and a front-line combatant. Clear communication was key, and in those rare times encryption became necessary...

Sherlock thought back to the early days of their acquaintance, to Moriarty and the pool, a bomb vest and snipers. To John blinking S.O.S. in Morse code. 

He lunged for a pencil, grabbing the blank envelope as he surveyed John's missive in a new light. Yes, there. Some spaces were bigger than others, denoting where the code for one letter ended and the next began. Hastily, he decrypted their missive, laying bare what John had really wanted to say.

Two words, no more, and Sherlock's heart surged in his throat.

_"I'm watched."_

Mary was wrong. John Watson did ask for help.

And Sherlock Holmes would answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great weekend, everyone  
> Thanks for reading, B xxx
> 
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	4. Chapter Three

_John_

_I understand. I am sorry. For everything. I will keep my distance. If there's anything I can do – but you have already said there isn't . I hope Rosie remains well. I would like to see my god-daughter again one day – if she can still be called such. I will leave that decision in your hands._

_What more is there to say?_

_Sherlock_

The breath hissed between John's lips, a shivering inhale. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he could actually taste it, as if someone had opened a window to a stagnant room. The coded letter to Sherlock had been a long shot: a product of his growing unease. 

A handful of years ago, he would have been appalled at his own paranoia. Yet after working with Sherlock and seeing first-hand the reach and power of a man like Moriarty, John found himself unwilling to leave anything to chance. 

The day before yesterday, his phone had started acting up. Echoes on the line and mis-coded characters in texts. He couldn't be sure that messages weren't being intercepted. Emails were eminently hackable, and visiting Sherlock in person? No. John had no idea what was going on, but walking into Baker Street would only make it worse, of that he was certain.

Once, before Rosie, he would have done it anyway. He would have let whoever was following him through the city and watching his damn house know that they weren't as clever as they thought, but he had a daughter to consider. Better for everyone if it appeared that he'd cut all connection to Sherlock, at least for now.

Sherlock seemed to share that notion. There had been no hurry in his reply. John had heard from both Greg and Molly that he had been in touch with them, informing them he would no longer be assisting the Yard or making use of the morgue. Sherlock was severing ties where he could. 

Of course, neither he nor Sherlock could say as much to Molly and Greg. To them it probably looked like a bloody-awful breakup or something. They were worried for John in his grief. As for Sherlock, without his cases and experiments, they feared where else he could turn. 

At first, John had driven himself half-spare with the same concerns, anxious and angry in equal measure that Sherlock, for all his genius, might not have figured out the code. Now, at least, he had the reassurance he had hoped for. There, hidden within neat handwriting – where odd spaces could be excused as mere quirks – the punctuation spelled out its own story in Morse.

**_Safe?_ **

He'd sent it to the surgery in a nondescript white envelope, the address typed and formal enough to blend in with the rest of the mail. Post to his house could be intercepted by any convincing stranger on the street, and John wouldn't put it past whoever was watching him to do just that. Here, letters were delivered straight to the front desk. There were no temps on-staff; no one but trusted employees who had been working here for years. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that John's workplace had been infiltrated, but he would take that risk.

At least now he knew Sherlock had got his message – that the bloody git was aware something was going on. Besides, his single word response said quite a lot. If Sherlock were familiar with the people watching John, then John’s safety wouldn’t be a concern. The question was, if Sherlock wasn’t pulling their strings, then who was giving them orders?

The intercom on his desk buzzed, startling him from his thoughts. He flicked the switch, grimacing as the receptionist informed him that his next appointment had arrived. 

'Thanks, Daphne. I'll call them in.' He pressed the button that would signal for the patient to head for his office, shuffling Sherlock's letter out of sight before turning to his computer. Normally, the relevant file would be queued for him, but the only response to his hopeful key presses was a blank screen. The system hadn't frozen. He could still go back and forward throughout his appointments. It was merely this patient's information that remained stubbornly empty.

A trickle of unease raced down John's spine, and a cold sweat burst across his brow. The surge of his heart beneath his ribs brought him to his feet. He clenched his hand into a brief fist as he considered his options. 

His gaze darted around the room, noting the limited exits – there was only one door and the window had been painted shut years ago. No way out, then. Not without being seen. 

With a hasty nod to himself, he strode over to the equipment trolley, opening a drawer and scooping up a scalpel. He freed it from its packaging in one quick rip and tucked it up his sleeve, blade pointing down towards his hand. It wasn't much – he would prefer his gun – but it would do if push really came to shove.

The door opened, the well-oiled hinges offering no protest, and his patient walked into the room.

'Oh,' John huffed out a sigh, putting aside the scalpel as "Anthea" offered him a smile and a knowing look. Her gaze seemed to sparkle, as if he amused her, and John cleared his throat as he returned to his chair. 'That explains the blank screen. I'm guessing you're not here for my medical opinion?'

'No.' She pulled a padded envelope out of her bag and handed it over. 'It's come to Mister Holmes' attention that you're being watched. That's a completely private and secure line to the _other_ Mister Holmes. Try not to use it where you might be seen. Not on the street. Not in your apartment.'

'What about here?' 

"Anthea" pulled a face. 'Here is adequate. Calls only, and remain connected for no longer than absolutely necessary.'

'I thought you said it was all right?'

'It is, for ninety seconds.' She sat in the seat opposite his desk, tucking one foot behind the other ankle: perfectly demure. 'Mister Holmes – Mister _Mycroft_ Holmes – can only guarantee so much.' Her lips twisted in a grimace, as if it upset her to admit her boss' limitations. 

'You need to understand that whoever has you under observation will notice a new phone if you use it where you might be seen. We cannot be sure what may cause them to escalate, and what form their escalation might take. Their motivations remain – veiled.' In her lap, her hand twitched, smoothing down the fabric of her skirt. 

'Are they watching Sherlock?' John wet his lips, a frown creasing his brow. Anxiety fluttered in the pit of his stomach, and he shoved it down. He didn't want to care about Sherlock – not after everything – but his damn heart betrayed him at every turn.

'They were, though not until after he visited your house and received your letter from Miss Hooper. They curtailed their efforts when it became clear the two of you were no longer associated.' 

Anthea continued to watch him, her face locked in that same impassive, genial smile that looked more like a mask with each passing moment. The only movement was when her eyes darted to the clock on the wall. 'You are the one at the centre of this web, Doctor Watson.' She said it gently, as if she were giving bad news to a child. 'You and your daughter. That alone is enough to cause concern.'

'But – but who... Why?' He leant forward, putting his elbows on the desk and resting his head in his hands. A tight vice of emotion clamped around his throat, and he swallowed against it, trying to ignore the way every breath had become an anxious snatch of air. 'Who is doing this?'

'We intend to find out.' Anthea got to her feet, inclining her head in quick farewell. 'Remember, ninety seconds, Doctor Watson.'

The door closed behind her, leaving John staring around his familiar office, taking in the medical posters and the institutional carpet, the harsh fluorescent lights and the cluttered expanse of his desk. The new phone sat there, black and sleek and small: perfectly discreet. A lifeline to Sherlock. All he had to do was reach out and take it.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair as his thoughts swirled: a tempestuous cacophony of anger and doubt, resentment and hope. God, he didn't want to do this. In some ways, it felt like giving up – like acknowledging that no matter how hard he tried, there was no escaping Sherlock's presence. Still, there was more to this than his personal feelings. Someone was watching him, watching _Rosie_. If Sherlock could help him, then John would be a fool not to reach out.

It only rang twice before the call connected, and John's stomach gave a tense little flip as he turned to watch the clock, counting off the seconds.

'John, are you all right?' Sherlock's rich voice washed over him, and John gritted his teeth, refusing to be soothed by the familiarity. Hundreds of words piled up behind his lips, and he let out a shaky breath, aware of the pressure of time slipping past.

'I'm safe. We're safe. What do you know?'

'Near constant surveillance on your apartment and outside your work, plus another individual who follows you en-route,' Sherlock said, quick and informative. 'Not my people, nor Mycroft's. It became obvious shortly after Mary...' Sherlock trailed off, and John could hear the unspoken "died" hovering on the line. 'After Mary.'

'Why?'

'I don't know.' Sherlock's clipped response almost made John smile. Blatant frustration edged his voice: curt and aggravated at the unanswered questions that circled around them. 'However, I have every intention of finding out. Leave it with me, John. For now, the best thing you can do is carry on as normal. '

John's bark of laughter sounded high and thin to his own ears, and he swallowed it down. 'Normal?' he demanded. The seethe of his temper, always so close to the surface these days, erupted through the cracks in his composure. 'When has my life ever been normal? This needs to stop, Sherlock. Now.'

The screen creaked under the pressure of his thumb as he disconnected the call, and John let out a tight breath, shoving the phone in his pocket. This – this whole situation... He wasn't ready for it. Not now. Maybe not ever. All he'd wanted was to focus on himself and his daughter – to find something like stability in the shifting tide of grief and uncertainty that consumed him. Instead it seemed that circumstances were conspiring to thrust Sherlock back into his life. 

Could it be deliberate? Could all of this be something orchestrated by Sherlock to force John's hand? Oh, he said that the people watching were nothing to do with him, and the seriousness in his voice on the phone had been convincing enough, but John had seen Sherlock shamming one time too many to truly believe his first impressions. Sherlock could be a bloody good actor when he felt like it, and the uncertainty jarred John's nerves and set his teeth on edge. 

Even if it wasn't some convoluted plot like Sherlock’s leap from Bart’s, there was still a very good chance that the people watching him were doing so because of one of Sherlock's cases. Maybe he'd pissed off the wrong person, or caught the attention of yet another criminal mastermind. Maybe the observers were foot soldiers, examining the lay of the land, and John – in his self-enforced isolation – made an easy target. Perhaps he was being assessed, his worth measured by some unknown criteria... 

John shook his head, reaching out to buzz in his next patient. Until he knew more, there was nothing he could do. He would have to tolerate their presence as best he could, and in the meantime, get on with his life, just as Sherlock suggested. What other choice did he have? 

The day passed; the hands crept around the clock face, and the new phone in his pocket stayed resolutely silent. It didn't take long before he began to regret hanging up on Sherlock. By the time he stood to go home his restless anger had vanished, leaving him hollow and drained. 

It wasn't good; he could see that. His emotions came too quick and hard for him to control, these days. Anger boiled below his skin while grief and guilt bled from an invisible black wound. It made him unreliable, unpredictable, and he couldn't afford to be like that anymore. Not with Rosie to look after.

Grabbing his coat, he strode out of his office, nodding to the receptionist in farewell and stepping into the car park, already reaching for his keys. He walked towards the car – Mary's car, really, but his now – on autopilot, every sense alert. He eyed the gaps between other vehicles, noting the empty driver seats as the low sensation of threat ran ice up and down his spine. 

Yet nothing jumped out at him, and he swallowed the contrary taste of disappointment as he slid behind the wheel and did up his seat belt. The engine started with its usual wheeze, and John checked his mirrors before reversing out of the parking space and heading off towards Rosie's day-care.

At least Rosie was settling in well. It was a small blessing, but John would count it while he could. Molly had been brilliant, but she had a job too and couldn't devote her days to watching Rosie. Besides, home was not as safe as John had once believed. He'd rather his daughter was in a secure nursery when he wasn't there to look after her, away from the prying eyes he could feel burning into the back of his neck even now.

A gleam of silver in his rear-view mirror caught his attention for the third time since coming out of the car park, and he narrowed his eyes at the little Fiat 500. Sherlock's warning about someone tailing him through London rang in his mind. Not that he could be certain. There were enough cars on the road that it was easy to blend in, but every time he glanced up, it was still there, hanging back and never quite in his direct line of sight.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, white-knuckled. It would be easy to take an abrupt turn and see if they gave chase or fell behind. The temptation thudded in his ears and his foot twitched on the accelerator, but he fought off the urge. 

If he let them know he was onto them, this whole thing – whatever it was – could blow up in his face. For now, they were happy to hang back and observe. If he changed the status-quo it could force them into action, and he wasn't sure he was ready to confront whatever that entailed. 

No, he couldn't push it. Not yet. As much as he longed to snap and snarl and shout at these – these fucking _bastards_ – he needed to wait. He had to trust Sherlock to do what he did best and find the answers they required. 

Inhaling through his nose, John turned his attention back to the road, steering towards Rosie's day-care. He couldn't hide this from them: her sanctuary. Hell, they probably already knew where she spent John's working hours, and that thought rankled at him like a chain around a dog's neck. 

He clenched his teeth, pulling up outside and slamming the driver's door with too much force, making the window rattle in its frame. Taking the steps two at a time, he smiled at the friendly woman on the reception desk and waited for them to bring him his daughter.

For a few, tense seconds, he wondered if this was where it all went wrong. If this was where these people turned around and told him that someone else had already picked Rosie up and driven off with her. A moment later they returned, carrying Rosie and her bag before surrendering them both to him with a smile and a cheerful "See you tomorrow!"

Rosie squealed as John smiled, his fears melting away like mist before the dawn. There were a lot of things he regretted about the past couple of years, but Rosie was not one of them. She had become his anchor, since Mary died: a focal point for his scattered existence, and every day he loved her all the more. 

'Come on then, Rosie-Rose. Let's go home.'

He buckled her into her car seat while she grumped at him, arching her back and generally making the whole thing difficult. Halfway through trying to wrangle her into the straps, John noticed his cane lying on the floor. He'd taken it with him to work and then promptly forgotten about it. Not once had he reached for it during the day and noticed its absence.

An odd cocktail of amusement and misery welled up in the back of his throat. Had he always been this bloody broken? Had he always needed excitement and danger to function? He had joined the army after all, but now he found himself staring down the barrel of an uncomfortable truth. He might hate being followed and watched – might snarl and snap at the threat present in the constant surveillance – but some part of him still thrived on the uncertainty. 

He smoothed down the restraints over Rosie's body, checking, as he always did, that the car seat remained secure before slipping in behind the wheel. He looked at his daughter in the rear-view mirror and surreptitiously glanced around the street. 

Nothing stood out at him in the evening sunlight. No suspicious characters loitered in their cars, and the Fiat 500 was nowhere in sight. He would love to think that meant Rosie was somehow off-limits to these people, but he refused to be so naive. 

He'd been part of Sherlock's life long enough to know that there were those without boundaries. Nothing was sacred, not even an innocent child. They were just collateral in whatever sick game these criminals were playing. He wouldn't have Rosie fall victim to that. Not in a million years.

There was nothing he would not do to keep her safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is such an angry, conflicted man. I love him so much! Hope you're enjoying this as much as I am!  
> Thanks for reading, B xxx
> 
> **Want to read the next chapter now?** [ Click here to find out how.](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com/SupportMe)
> 
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	5. Chapter Four

Sherlock lounged in one of the many cafes near John's work, pretending to read a copy of _Der Prozess_. A grey hoodie shrouded his torso and jeans hung from his hips. The untied laces of his trainers clattered every time he shifted his foot, and thick rimmed glasses with plain lenses perched on his nose. 

To anyone offering him nothing but a passing glance, he could be taken for a student: one of many, enjoying an over-priced, under-flavoured coffee in the busy anonymity of a crowd. If someone scrutinised him more closely, they might notice the delicate lines of age beginning to dig in around his eyes, but few people bothered. They were too busy with their own little lives to really _see_ anything.

There were exceptions to the rule, of course. Out there, beyond the large windows offering him a view of the street, he could see two others, motionless like stones amidst the swirling currents of London's chaos. 

One never took so much as a single drag from the cigarette in his grasp. Now and then it would burn down to the filter, and he would light another, only to cling to it and do nothing. 

A woman sat on a bench, her high-class skirt-suit screaming that she worked in the financial district, while her posture told a different story. Soldier, or something of that ilk. She turned the page of the newspaper in her grasp when she remembered, which was roughly every half-an-hour.

They were, he suspected, trained operatives, but surveillance was not a task that suited either of them. They were too battle-primed for that. They stood out in their surroundings like broken glass, jagged and incongruous. It was no wonder John had caught on so quickly. Perhaps a normal, busy person might never have realised they were being observed, but John was army trained. Time with Sherlock had honed his instincts. Of course he'd noticed his new shadows: not accustomed to such work, but not amateurs, either.

So who were they?

Sherlock turned the page, picking up his coffee to take a sip as he examined the question in his mind. His first, horrified concern had been that this was some vestige of Moriarty's network: some sleeper-cell that had awoken to some unspecified signal, but no. It couldn’t be.

In his absence from London, he had been thorough in dismantling every last strand of that particular web. He had left no stone unturned. Besides, as ominous as they seemed, these watchers were too banal – too obvious. They had none of Moriarty's flair. No, if there was to be a sting in the tail of that whole debacle, then it would be explosive. Sherlock would be left in no doubt of who to blame.

But if not Moriarty, then who?

He had spent the night digging back through his clients, looking at each of them in a new light, cracking open the shells of their lives and prodding for any secret that may have escaped his attention. There were plenty who might hold a grudge: spouses caught cheating, committing fraud or otherwise being underhanded, but their retribution was more linear. They threw punches and were swiftly put in their place. None of them had the connections or resources for any kind of surveillance scheme. Besides, if the aim was to punish Sherlock, then they would do more than watch John. They would take him, hurt him or otherwise make their intentions known. 

No, this was not about revenge. In fact, with every passing hour, he became convinced it wasn't even about Sherlock himself. For once, John's problem had very little to do with him, which left only one other option.

This was something about Mary.

Sherlock grimaced into his coffee cup, setting the drink aside and shoving his book in the satchel slung over the back of his chair. Pulling it onto his shoulder, he sauntered from the cafe, resisting the urge to lift his hand for a cab. He was a student, after all. Better to cling to the illusion that money was tight. 

Soon, John would be emerging from work for his lunch break. The desire to linger – to see for himself that John was as well as could be expected – hummed in Sherlock's veins, but he pushed it aside. Once John was on the scene, the two watching him would become focussed and hyper-vigilant. The risk of Sherlock himself being discovered would increase ten-fold. No, he would get out now, while they were still waiting, lost in their own illusion of safe anonymity.

He walked past the bench, taking note of the smaller details he had not observed from a distance. The callus on the woman's trigger finger. The hairline of the dark, curly wig, expertly but not precisely applied. Makeup shaded to narrow the angle of her jaw. She was better at disguise than observation: interesting.

Moving onwards, he crossed the street, heading for the corner where the man waited. The stench of his menthol cigarettes reached Sherlock before anything else, and he wrinkled his nose, settling for a quick, visual sweep. 

Younger than he had first thought, and surprisingly benign in appearance. There was not much to mark his expression, though his pallor suggested he spent most of his days indoors. Only a hair thin wire curving up behind his ear suggested anything ominous: communications of some kind: an unexpected facet to their organisation.

Silently, Sherlock turned off to the left, melting into London’s crowds. The walk towards Diogenes was too long to consider, and once he was several streets away, Sherlock pulled off his glasses. Straightening from his youthful slouch made his back twinge, and he grimaced in discomfort as he raised his hand for a taxi. 

Age was sneaking up on him, it seemed, or perhaps it was a physical weakness with an emotional source? After all, he could not deny his concern over John. Not just his safety, but his well-being. He had not stayed around, when he tumbled from Bart's, to bear witness to John's grief. He only had one image of John standing by his grave: an empty lie.

Yet John seemed louder, this time. Anger, not sadness, appeared to be his primary emotion, and one that Sherlock had learned to respect. John Watson's rage was not something to be taken lightly. It made him unpredictable, even to someone as observant as Sherlock. 

In the current, volatile situation, that was an added complication for which he could not prepare. Yes, John may have reached out to him first, may have asked for help, but he had made it clear on the brief phone call they had shared that he believed this to be – at least in part – Sherlock's fault. Was that the only reason he had got into contact, or was there more behind it? Some driving need that Sherlock couldn't discern?

He shook his head, running a hand though his dishevelled hair. He hated this helplessness. Ever since Mary had stepped into the bullet's path, it felt as if his life had been torn from his control. He was a mere passenger: a bystander when he would once have held centre-stage. 

John deserved time and space in his grief, but Sherlock felt ill-equipped to understand the conflicting messages that came his way. He kept trying to see what the future might hold – in a day, a week, a month – and coming up empty-handed. Every moment seemed to pass in a futile effort to select the best course of action. In truth, he felt lost.

That was why he was on his way to meet Mycroft. It was why he had reached out to his brother for help in the first place. As much as he and Mycroft may chafe against one another at times, his older brother had never yet turned down a request for assistance from Sherlock. Perhaps he knew that the first time he did so would be the last time Sherlock ever asked. 

Besides, having Mycroft and his minions act as a middle-man between Sherlock and John was a sensible course of action. Not only did it weaken the perceived connection between them to anyone who may be observing them, but it kept Sherlock out of John's way. 

He had requested distance while simultaneously asking for help, and Sherlock could not bring himself to believe that one desire was true while the other was not. In all honesty, he suspected John wanted both. He pulled Sherlock close while pushing him away. He cried out for help while begrudging those who tried to offer assistance. 

John was a wounded animal, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to ease his pain.

Eventually, the spin of the taxi's wheels delivered him to the front door of the Diogenes. Normally, he would never be permitted admittance in his current attire, but he'd warned Mycroft to expect him dressed as such. If his brother had any sense, he would have informed the very particular staff that exceptions were to be made. 

Indeed, a valet in immaculate black and white stood waiting for him, a benign smile perched on his lips. He nodded in greeting, his gloved hands gripping the door and holding it open. He waited for Sherlock to pass before sweeping in and ushering him onwards through silent corridors to Mycroft's private room. No doubt it cost his brother a fortune, but it was a matter of necessity. The Diogenes Club was, above all else, discreet.

'Good grief, Sherlock. What do you look like?' Mycroft's thin lips twitched in a smirk as the wing of one eyebrow quirked upwards. He had a glass of brandy in his hand, though Sherlock knew that was more likely to be an affectation at this time of day. Mycroft liked to keep his wits about him. While the civil service and its various branches may embrace a culture of day-drinking, he rarely partook in such behaviour. 'Drink?'

'No.' Sherlock slumped in one of the armchairs by the fire, dumping his bag on the floor and kicking his feet out in front of him. The silent restraint of Diogenes always rasped at his nerves, inciting him to childish rebellion. The whole place was built on a firm foundation of etiquette and tradition: stifled, old thinking that set his teeth on edge. 'And you can stop pretending to be civil for my benefit. What have you found out?'

Mycroft gave Sherlock a weary glare, implying without a single word just how tiresome he was being. A moment later, the expression vanished, replaced by something far more intriguing. It took Sherlock a heartbeat to recognise it – so rare was its appearance: puzzlement. 

'I've been doing some digging. I have to say the results have been sparse at best. Whoever is watching John Watson, it's no amateur organisation.' He wandered over to his desk, picking up a few, slender files and pressing them into Sherlock's hand. 'As far as all my personal surveillance has uncovered, John is being watched by three separate individuals. Two male, one female. The identities uncovered are thorough and would pass even moderate scrutiny.'

'But...?'

'But I do not stop at "moderate". Their stories are established and have been maintained over the past twelve years. Before that, they do not exist.'

'That suggests that they have some power behind them. They're not some small, independent outfit.' Sherlock frowned, skimming the sparse details available to him. Mycroft was right; the fake identities had been crafted with care. 'I suppose they're not official?'

'Certainly not from our lot,' Mycroft murmured, 'and I cannot comprehend why any foreign power would show interest in a retired army doctor, even one with connections such as John Watson has in his possession. No, Sherlock. I don't think any government, here or abroad, lays claim to these individuals.'

'Then who? It's not Moriarty. This has none of his style, and I neutralised any affiliates who might seek revenge during my absence.'

Mycroft wrinkled his nose, defying all of Sherlock's expectations and taking a healthy gulp of the drink in his hand. He looked uncomfortable in his three-piece suit, as if he were girding his loins to broach an unpleasant subject. 'What about Mary Morstan?

'Mary Watson.'

A razor thin smile cleaved Mycroft’s face. 'Quite so. You cannot ignore the fact that this surveillance on John became overt not long after her death. The chances of it being related to her somewhat chequered past cannot be dismissed out of hand.' The look Mycroft gave him held phantoms of sympathy in its depths. 'No matter how much we may wish to do so.'

Sherlock frowned, sitting forward to slip the files into his bag. Mycroft didn't protest. No doubt they were copies. It was not that the notion of Mary's involvement with the current situation had not crossed his mind. Rather, he had forcefully pushed it aside. 

Much of the time since his return to London had been spent endeavouring to turn a blind eye to all the potential shadows Mary harboured in her past. There had been no real choice but to let John take the lead in all things, and in the end, John had not wanted to know. He preferred to cling to the notion of a normal wife for as long as possible, insisting that the past was far behind them. 

However, just because John wished it didn't make it true.

'Did you ever look at that thumb drive?' Mycroft asked, turning his back to the room and staring out of the window. 'Before John burned it, I mean.'

'No.' Sherlock sighed, pursing his lips as he tilted his head to one side in acknowledgement. His brother may not be facing him, but he would be watching his reflection in the glass. 'However, I did make a copy. Perhaps it is time I examined at it.'

'You may not like what you find.'

Sherlock grimaced. 'I'm not concerned about my feelings.' He rubbed his palm over the hub of his denim-clad kneecap. 'It's John that worries me. He is – unpredictable – when it comes to his late wife. I doubt he will accept any mention of our suspicions with good grace.'

'So you share my conclusions?'

He looked towards the fire; the flames banked low against the damp chill that pervaded the Georgian building. 'It's an angle of consideration we cannot afford to ignore. The question is, why now? Why after Mary's death? I could understand her being observed by people who knew of her involvement in AGRA, either those who were members of the team or who knew of its existence, but after she's gone? Unless there was something in her possession others sought, something they think John may now have?' Sherlock chewed absently on the side of his thumb, scowling at the grate. 'I need more data.'

'Then I suggest, dear brother, that you set about finding it. So far, I can see no inclination for this surveillance situation to escalate, but matters can change in mere moments. Let's try and stay one step ahead of this if we can.'

'Agreed.' Sherlock got to his feet and scooped up his bag, already striding across the room towards the door. 'See if you can find any more information on the people watching John. I know you've not yet pulled every string in your possession.'

'Consider it done. And Sherlock?'

He turned, taking in the thoughtful slant of Mycroft's features and the faint glow of concern in his eyes. 'Be careful.'

With one, brief nod, he departed, striding through the grand hallways and out of the front door. It was a decent walk to Baker Street, but for once Sherlock felt inclined to pace the pavements rather than endure the confines of a cab. His head whirled, not with the vivid lightning storm of a case coming together, but a thick ooze of confusion that left a headache drumming in his temples. 

Mycroft would no doubt accuse him of sentiment. In fact, Sherlock was surprised he'd not had to endure a lecture-cum-warning from his older brother. He would count his blessings in that regard. Besides, when it came to John, it was impossible to ignore his associated emotions. They had built too much between them for Sherlock to rest easy when something threatened John's happiness and well-being... and there was a threat. He could feel it in the piy of his stomach and marrow of his bones. If only he could actually _see_ it!

Scowling, Sherlock continued to stride along, weaving in and out of the other pedestrians as each step ate up the distance towards the flat. Not home, not really. It hadn't been for a long time, not since John had shared those rooms with him. Strange. Once, he would not have minded the solitude. Now it wounded him at the most unexpected moments, bringing him up short and leaving him bereft. 

John's company had been an insidious addition to his life. Even after his return to London and John's subsequent wedding, he and Mary seemed to spend more time in Baker Street than their own place: as if some force inexorably drew them there. Now, Sherlock found himself wondering if John would ever darken the door again. Could things return to the way they had once been, or was this the beginning of the end?

Sherlock swallowed, shaking his head as he ignored the pain that clenched beneath his ribs. It was of no matter. He had survived life before John, and he would survive it after him. His main concern now had to be finding out who was watching John and why. It may be the last thing tying the two of them together, but as long as the mystery lingered, John would never be free to make a decision regarding what their future might hold.

Perhaps, he mused, it would be his last gift to John: the information he needed to finally choose his freedom from the burden of their friendship.

It was a sad, lonely thought, but one he could not shake as he slipped through the front door and slogged up the steps to 221B. He could not turn back now, no matter how much he wished otherwise. John needed his help and Sherlock would not deny him.

He had not hidden the USB drive from John. It was a lie by omission, nothing more. Yet that excuse offered little reassurance. He was loath to mention it without good cause, and he feared he might find just that within the device’s electrical pathways. It held all of Mary’s secrets, or so she had said. 

And if Sherlock were to find the answers he needed to ensure John’s safety, then he would need to unearth every single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, everyone! I hope you're doing okay after this stressful week!  
> B xxx
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	6. Chapter Five

It was strange, the circumstances that could become normal. A year ago, John could not imagine a time when being under constant surveillance would not chafe against his nature. Now, weeks after he had first felt the presence of watchful eyes as he stood at Mary's grave, he had grown accustomed to their burden. 

He'd not spoken to Sherlock since that day in his office, curt and to the point. He'd expected Sherlock to make full use of the open channel, but the secure phone remained silent. No more coded letters came his way. In fact, John could almost believe that Sherlock had listened to his plea and kept his distance. 

Only the homeless people near his work hinted otherwise. It was always someone different, practically invisible in their nest of blankets, dossed down in a doorway or up by the shops on the corner, cup in hand. If he met their eyes, they'd give him a nod of acknowledgement, nothing more. He was not their concern. They watched the watchers.

It brought John a comfort he didn't know he needed, seeing Sherlock's unobtrusive influence. He'd not been forgotten. Whatever was going on, whyever those people were watching him, Sherlock was on the case.

John sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face and flicking on the news. Rosie was asleep, the baby monitor transmitting her quiet snores. Now the house sprawled around him, the world beyond the windows dark and the lamps glowing with mellow warmth. From the outside it probably looked like a home, but John could feel the emptiness within its walls.

The loneliness hit him once Rosie was in bed. More often than not, he and Mary had been too tired to do much more than collapse in front of the TV, but the companionship had always been there. Even after all they'd been through, all the issues, there'd been something soothing to her presence.

This? It reminded him of when Sherlock was gone: the resounding, leaden ache his absence left in its wake.

With a sigh, John stared at the TV screen, sipping at a milky cup of tea and curling his sock-clad toes against the floor. He could sit down on the sofa, too big for just one person, but that felt like settling in. As much as his body ached for rest, he could not bring himself to relax. He didn't deserve it. Not with Mary gone and people watching and Rosie only a room away, needing him every waking moment. 

Even sleep was a guilty pleasure, these days. Something he shouldn't want and could not be permitted to enjoy. His therapist would be appalled by the depths of his self-punishment. Of course, he'd have to call her first. Set up an appointment...

He would, one day. When he was no longer under surveillance by God-knew who. He already felt like he was living in a fishbowl, his every moment of weakness on display. That – the admission of needing professional help – seemed a step too far.

A sound on the edge of his hearing made him pause, his mug halfway to his mouth and his eyes narrowed in consideration. The jab of his thumb silenced the prattle of the news presenter as he turned off the telly, the dark screen becoming a blank, baleful eye. Rosie murmured something in her sleep: lazy, baby noises that, at any other time, would melt John's heart. Now, he dismissed them: benign and irrelevant. They were not what had caught his ear and brought latent battle instincts screaming to the fore.

There. It was a soft sound, little more than a long, steady scratch against glass – too slow and deliberate to be tapping branches clattering on the window. John set his mug down with a clank, ignoring the splash of hot tea against his hand as he darted towards the light-switch, pressing his shoulder blades to the wall even as he flicked it, plunging the house into darkness.  
Only the streetlights outside illuminated the vague bulk of the furniture. John gave his eyes a moment to adjust, breathing in the steady, balanced way that allowed him to tame the adrenaline thudding through his body. 

He thought of the gun, locked away upstairs and out of his reach. He'd fought off the temptation to carry it with him. Out on the street the risk of discovery was too great, and at home, he had Rosie to consider. He would never forgive himself if a stray bullet or a misfire harmed his little girl. 

The soprano tinkle of shattering glass ghosted through the air, the silence that followed almost deafening. It came from the back of the house, and John swallowed hard, considering his options.

Someone was breaking in. It seemed too early in the evening for burglary. A thief after valuables would wait until they were certain everyone was asleep. No, whoever this was, they knew the building was occupied. They weren't after things, but people. 

Rosie.

John moved like a ghost, flitting across his own hallway and creeping up the stairs, remembering with the ease of practice which ones creaked beneath his weight and avoiding their betrayal. He might not be a soldier anymore, but the lessons the army had taught him about combat remained carved into his bones; skills he could call upon at a moment’s notice. Right now, that meant getting to his daughter's room unseen and unheard.

They'd be armed, whoever they were, insinuating themselves into the frail sanctuary of his home. They must be aware of his presence. Would they incapacitate him and steal Rosie away, or were the two of them targets? If John was lucky, they'd attempt to overpower and sedate him somehow. If not, their solution could be more terminal. 

With a steadying breath, John slipped into Rosie's room, checking the blinds were drawn over the window. A nightlight cast odd shadows on the walls, but it allowed him to avoid the chaos of baby clothes and soft toys as he eased his way over to Rosie's cot and scooped her into his arms. 

She sagged against him, her little mouth parted around breathy snores: sleeping like the dead. John uttered a silent prayer of thanks for that small blessing as he tiptoed towards the nursery door, his thoughts focussed on the Sig locked in his bedside table: his only line of defence.

A shadow in the stairwell made his heart shudder. His tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth as he pulled back from the threshold. He'd been too slow, and now he and Rosie were trapped, cut-off and with no way out. 

A cold sweat broke out across his upper lip. His gaze darted around the room, alighting on the built-in wardrobe at the far end. As hiding places went, it was obvious, but perhaps it could buy him a little time: even one minute more could make all the difference.

As quietly as he could, he slipped inside, nestling between the tiny, hanging garments and pressing his back against the wall. Against his chest, Rosie began to stir, and he shushed her breathlessly, pleading with her to hold her silence as he jammed himself into one corner.

Something in his pocket dug into his hip, and John's heart leapt in his throat as he remembered the phone Anthea had dropped off in his office. He wasn't meant to use it here, but she had said it was for emergencies. John was fairly certain that someone breaking into his home counted as such.

Dragging it free, he cursed as it slid in his sweaty palm, the glossy plastic slick against his skin. The screen bathed the small space of the wardrobe in an acid blue light, and John quickly darkened it, plunging them back into shadow as he dialled the only number that mattered.

'John?'

Sherlock's greeting flowed over his tattered nerves: a soothing tide of familiarity. He did not dare try and peer through the crack in the door to see if his would-be attackers were approaching. He barely had the courage to lift his voice above a breathy whisper as he hissed, 'Someone's in the house.'

'Are you safe?'

'Not for long.'

There was a split-second's silence: Sherlock taking a sliver of time to think before he issued clear, concise instructions. 'Stay exactly where you are.'

The buzz of the dial-tone echoed in John's ear before he could question Sherlock's orders. He whimpered a curse as he slid the phone back in his pocket, wrapping his arm around Rosie and listening for movement beyond the wardrobe. 

The intruders were upstairs; too close for comfort. He could hear them prowling along the corridor, no doubt sweeping each room as they went. They were looking for him, seeking to incapacitate or neutralise him before they bothered with the nursery. Perhaps he should be grateful they were being thorough. Every second that passed was more time for Sherlock to act.

John chewed his lip, his heart fluttering in his chest as he wondered if he'd made the best choice. For all he knew Sherlock was back in Baker Street, half the city away and too far off to help. Perhaps he should have called the police instead. What did it say about him that his first thought was not to contact the emergency services, but Sherlock?

Rosie’s bedroom door creaked on its hinges. John’s breath fell still in his throat. Panic hummed in his ears, and every muscle locked tight. He felt like prey hiding from some great, unknown beast, cowering in the shadows as he waited for the future to unfurl. The angle of the nightlight meant he couldn't see much through the tiny chink in the wardrobe door, nothing beyond a hint of dark clothing and the shifting shadow of not one, but two invaders.

He was outnumbered. 

Closing his eyes, he pressed his lips to the top of Rosie's head, breathing in the scent of her as he bared his teeth. Every muscle shivered with the need to act, trembling beneath his skin as the air turned tight and heavy around him. Sweat trickled down his spine, and John swallowed hard, barely blinking. He watched the light change beyond the door as the two figures oh-so-slowly approached.

The scream of house alarms shattered the night, hitting John like a blow to the face as he gasped for breath. Claxons shrieked, not just from his neighbours' properties, but from every other building in the street with the capacity to do so. The din was overwhelming, and John could hear people shouting questions as they were roused from their peaceful evenings.

He felt rather than heard the intruders flee, their looming presence fading from his senses. John shivered, waiting where he sat as one minute, then two more slipped past. Sherlock had told him to stay where he was, but the noise had startled Rosie. Faint whimpers plucked at his heartstrings, and he shushed her, pressing a kiss to her brow as he pushed open the wardrobe door.

John expected there to be some sign of disturbance, a legacy of the strangers' presence, but Rosie's room remained untouched. Even the toys strewn on the floor had not been disturbed. John let out a shuddering breath, his legs trembling as the roar of adrenaline slowly ebbed. 

He shifted his daughter over onto his hip, crooning his reassurances as he inched across the room, pausing at the threshold to check the hallway was clear before hurrying to the bedroom. Rosie cooed as he put her in the middle of the mattress, checking she was secure before he reached towards his bedside table with shaking hands. It took him three goes to get the key in the lock, but when he yanked the drawer open and scooped the Sig into his hand, some of his fear crystallised into determination.

With fingers long used to the motions, he checked the clip and secured the pistol before he tucked it into the back of his jeans. Outside, he could hear the far-off cry of sirens closing in. Most of the alarms would be tied in to a centralised system, one that automatically notified the emergency services of a potential situation. As plans went, it was effective. His would-be attackers had fled and were not likely to return in any hurry. Not when his street was crawling with police and witnesses alike. 

He and Rosie were safe.

For now.


	7. Chapter Six

Sherlock strode back and forth in front of the fireplace, his footsteps ringing out their accusations. In his palm, the phone that offered a secure line to John felt slick and ethereal, a drifting connection that could, at any moment, be severed. 

His body keened, every muscle humming with ill-constrained concern. With no eyes on the ground he had no way to know what had happened. Had his efforts succeeded? Had the clamour of simultaneous alarms scared off the intruders – One? Many? Sherlock couldn't be sure – in John's home? Had they fled, or did they even now bring their unknown plan to fruition? Had he done enough, or were John and Rosie suffering the consequences of Sherlock's distance?

The ring of the phone in his hand struck him like a live wire, clenching every muscle as a breath rushed through his lips. A moment later he lifted it to his ear, not even offering a greeting as John's welcome voice came over the line.

'They're gone. Thanks.'

'It's the least I could do,' Sherlock murmured. 'As soon as you said you were being followed, I looked into our options. It was a quick hack.' He let out a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing a finger down the bridge of his nose. 'John, you have to know this is only a temporary reprieve. They will try again, and this failure may even make them more desperate – more dangerous.'

He heard John swallow, a tense noise that spoke volumes of his uncertainty. 'What are you suggesting?'

Sherlock hesitated, his mind whirling as, all the while, a timer in the back of his head ticked down. Mycroft could only guarantee the sanctity of the line for ninety seconds at a time, and that narrow window of opportunity was quickly closing. 'I doubt they will try again tonight. I'll call you in an hour or two, once I have a solid notion of how to proceed.'

'I'm not coming back to Baker Street.' 

The words were spoken with a resolve that struck at Sherlock's heart, making it ache in the cradle of his ribs. 'I wouldn't ask you to. Besides, I doubt it's any safer than your current residence. Leave this with me, John.'

He disconnected the call, knowing that if he didn’t, they ran the risk of the whole conversation devolving into an argument. John seemed to live on the knife-edge of his temper these days, not that Sherlock could blame him, but the added layer of sentiment made the current situation all the more difficult. He only hoped that John's desire to take care of Rosie exceeded his own stubborn resistance to accepting Sherlock's help.

Reaching for his other mobile, he dialled Mycroft's number, knowing that any conversation he had with his brother would not be victim to prying third parties. If nothing else, Mycroft's role within the British government gave him access to more secure technology than the average man could boast.

'Is Doctor Watson safe?' 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He should have known that Mycroft would already be aware of the situation. No doubt he also knew more than he was letting on. If Mycroft didn't have an informant on the scene in John's street even as they spoke, then Sherlock would eat the ludicrous deerstalker hat that still hung on its peg downstairs. 

'For now.' He sat in his armchair, the leather creaking under his weight as he allowed it to support his weary frame. 'It won't last. This is a clear escalation. He needs a safehouse.' Sherlock sighed, bowing his head as he admitted, 'And Baker Street is anything but safe. It's the first place they would look.'

'Finding Doctor Watson somewhere to take shelter while we sort out this mess is not the challenge,' Mycroft replied, and Sherlock could hear the clack of computer keys: his brother already making arrangements, solving problems without consulting anyone else about the particulars – as was his wont. 'Getting him there while keeping those who have him under surveillance ignorant of it is another matter.'

'Leave that to me.' Sherlock straightened, his muscles galvanising as a plan bloomed in his mind. 'My network have located what they believe to be a base of operations for those who are watching John. I'll dig around, see what I can find, and then do something drastic: something that will keep their attention fixed very close to home.'

Mycroft's silence spoke volumes. Sherlock could hear every wordless warning furled within its depths. 'These people are not to be underestimated, Sherlock,' he said at last.

'Nor am I.'

A gusty sigh hissed in his ear. 'Very well. Notify John that a car will be there to collect him and Miss Watson at six a.m. sharp. That will give the ruckus on his street a chance to calm, while still giving us the advantage of the early morning tranquillity: such as it is in London. I will deal with his place of work and Miss Watson's day-care. If he wishes to know where he is going, I can only offer "outside of the city" as an answer. It's best he knows no more than that.'

'Would it not be better if you told him yourself?' Sherlock asked, carefully editing anything like sentiment from his voice. He was fairly certain that Mycroft heard it anyway, judging by the faint, mirthless laugh that trickled down the line.

'However angry Doctor Watson is, Sherlock, he would still take news such as this better from you than from myself. That, I can guarantee.' There was another brief clatter of keys. 'One last thing. The likelihood of retaliation by these people for any of your actions is considerable. I will make sure Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister in Brighton, and there will be a car waiting for you outside St Paul's Church in Marylebone at eight a.m.. Do not be late, and ensure nothing incriminating is left behind. You need to leave Baker Street.'

The call went dead before Sherlock could protest, and he curled his lip in annoyance at his brother's heavy-handed orders. So far, these strangers watching John had shown no interest whatsoever in Sherlock. Their focus was narrow and precise, with little thought given beyond John and his tiny family. That, more than anything, enhanced Sherlock's suspicions that this all came back to Mary, and he drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair before getting to his feet.

The USB stick had offered a wealth of information, but it was a device encrypted in layers. Some of it was easily accessible – things that Mary had wanted them to find. Others were more challenging, shielded away but still easy enough to pick apart. 

That only left one file, something hidden in a bizarre subroutine and protected with the kind of coding even Sherlock could not unravel. He'd had to outsource that particular task to someone else, and it would take time. 

Sherlock suspected the file to be some form of digital trap, designed to destroy the USB stick and all its contents in a single, quick blow. Either that, or it was the key he was looking for. One held irritatingly out of his reach.

With a sigh, he got to his feet, checking the clock before spurring himself into action. He would begin his infiltration at five a.m., giving him plenty of time to search the suspect's premises before Mycroft whisked John away and his distraction became a necessity. In the meantime, there was much to do, least of all breaking the news of a hasty departure to John.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Dawn's pearl light painted the eastern horizon as Sherlock slumped in the doorway opposite a run-down building in Bayswater. It had been an office, once, judging from the papers stacked behind its grime-encrusted windows: an old-records facility, perhaps, barricaded up after whatever company owned it was mothballed in the recession. Now it stood, grim and dark at the far end of a busy street, part of the scenery and nothing more.

The only thing of any note was the Fiat 500 parked in its gateway. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, considering his options. He had never seen more than the same, three people observing John as he went about his day, but it would be foolish to assume no one else skulked in the shadows. His sources had not been able to give him a clear picture of any other potential occupants, but he had no wish to take any unnecessary risks; not when John's safety hung in the balance.

Reaching behind him, he pulled the hood of his jumper over his head, arranging his body in the familiar slouch of a man a decade his junior. He ambled across the road towards the perimeter, vaulting the fence with easy confidence before striding down the narrow strip of weed-riddled lawn that fringed the crumbling red-brick premises. 

Blind security cameras hung on their brackets, useless, and the external lights let out a sallow glow, flickering like a failing heartbeat. The place had power, at least, which implied that someone, somewhere, was paying its bills. However, its current occupiers sought to stay beneath the radar, rather than fortifying their derelict bastion. Either they were confident that they could neutralise any intruders, or stalwart in their belief of their own invisibility.

Well, if that was the case, they clearly had not considered the power of Sherlock's homeless network. He planned to use the information they had gleaned to his full advantage.

It did not take him long to find a window, the glass broken and the casing hanging on its hinges. Easing it open, he avoided any jagged edges as he slipped inside, crouching as he dropped to the floor to deaden the noise of his landing. All around him, old shelves bowed with the weight of mouldering paper: the perfect fire-hazard. It would not take much to start a blaze. 

He straightened up, taking a moment to get his bearings. Louise, one of his informants, had said the only area she saw movement was in the north-west corner, furthest from the street. John's watchers had no doubt claimed a small portion of the building for themselves rather than wasting time and resources attempting to secure the sprawling space. That was where Sherlock needed to be, and he doubted he would be alone when he got there.

Considering they had failed to infiltrate John's home and carry out whatever plan they had in mind, he had no doubt that the would-be attackers would return to their stronghold. They would need to regroup, the better to redouble their efforts. 

Did they realise they had bitten off more than they could chew? Had they expected to find John defenceless, lost and friendless in his grief? Surely anyone with any intelligence would have discovered his connection to Sherlock and planned accordingly, but it seemed not. Perhaps they had decided that Mary's death had broken the friendship beyond repair: that John would never ask for Sherlock's help, and Sherlock would not offer it? 

Fools. 

Whether or not his relationship with John could ever recover remained to be seen, but neither one of them could forget the past. They could not turn their backs on how close they had once been. That continued to be a valuable asset, even amidst all this uncertainty.

Sherlock ghosted along empty corridors, his footsteps light and his breathing steady. The gloom pressed in at him from all sides, and he navigated the space with care, constantly alert for any presence other than his own. Yet it was not until he approached the north-west that the first signs of life made themselves clear. 

It started with the scent of coffee, rich upon the air. The shadows lessened, their veils drawing back as the occasional lamp pocked the darkness. A rickety desk, lashed with rope to offer it support, stood in the centre of an empty room, and various screens glowed from where they perched on its surface.

The temptation to approach them, to drift his fingers over their keys and unearth their secrets, itched beneath Sherlock's skin. Yet he turned away, shifting his attention to the walls even as he cocked his head, listening for any sound of movement. None strafed across his hearing, and he hesitated, checking every corner to reassure himself the place was empty before he crossed the threshold. 

Photographs: they covered the wall – all the facets of John's life exposed for the entertainment of strangers. Sherlock's gaze darted around, seeking order in the chaos, building a timeline that left his lips pinched and his eyes flat. Something seethed low in his belly, desperate to rip them down and hide them, to take all the evidence of John's existence from these _thieves_ , but he could not. 

Instead, he pulled out his phone, quickly snapping overlapping pictures in as much detail as he could, angling the lights to push away the shadows and render the flash unnecessary. He caught all he could within the scope of the lens, his heart in his throat. At last, he took it all in, committing the wall and its layout to memory before turning his attention to the files on the desk.

They were loose-leaf, disordered and chaotic, as if someone had thrown them aside in a fit of pique only to scoop up the pages and dump them back on the surface. Dense type greeted Sherlock's scrutiny, and he pursed his lips: ionic alphabet – Greek, he realised. There was no time to translate it now, and he did the same as with the photos, taking hasty pictures as he shuffled through what he could, gleaning everything possible.

Whoever these people were, they were well-equipped. The computers were top-of-the-range, and would no doubt have the security to match it. A glance at his watch told him there was no time to waste, and Sherlock's lips hooked in a grimace as he turned away, intent on exploring the other rooms nearby.

A fragment of sound breached the silence, freezing him where he stood. It had not been much, a mere scrape of something against the flagstone floor, but it may as well have been a gunshot. Sherlock immediately flinched back, crouching low and holding his breath as he waited, watching the open doorway.

A pair of shadows moved, turning not in to the room that harboured him, but one beyond. The melodic Greek conversation washed over him, and though he was far from fluent, he could pick out some of the curses of frustration: a mission turned foul. Were they the ones who had breached John's home, or had there been more than one target tonight? 

A few more voices rose in greeting, hazy with sleep, and Sherlock held his breath, listening to the chatter: the overtones of camaraderie. This was no hastily assembled team, but a group used to the presence of one another – aware of the strengths and weaknesess of each individual and accustomed to the jagged edges of different personalities. 

It spoke of something far more long term and organised than he had first assumed. These were not consultants brought together by a master-mind, but an integrated and established cadre. 

In theory, it would make their identities easier to pin down, but it also meant they were practiced, professional... lethal.

A glance at his watch told him John would be leaving his home in less than ten minutes. As tempting as it was to linger, to try and glean more from his surroundings, Sherlock knew he had run out of time. John needed that distraction, something that would bring anyone still out in the field running back to base. 

Sherlock reached inside his hoodie, groping in one of the specially sewn pockets for his supplies. A grim smile crossed his lips as he pulled free the first bottle of vodka and unscrewed the cap. The strip of rag bunged in the neck burned obligingly once touched by the spark of the lighter he carried, and he waited, making sure it caught before creeping back towards the door and aiming at the wall of photos.

The smash of glass and _whoomph_ of flames thudded in his ears, but he was already running, ignoring the shouts of alarm behind him as the thick smoke began to drift. That had merely been the opening volley; he had three more bottles, and all around him the building was stacked with piles of paper: kindling waiting to be set ablaze. 

It was a simple matter to lob the Molotov cocktails into rooms as he passed. Behind him, he could hear the growing panic of the building's other occupants: hasty instructions being given over radio channels or on mobile phones. Perhaps they would have the sense to make sure that someone kept their eyes on John, but he doubted it. Fire, after all, exposed a person's priorities, and with any luck that would be their own survival.

He vaulted back through the same window that had allowed him in, taking a moment to turn and inspect his handiwork. It would not take long for the flames to catch and spread. Already a haze of smoke filled his view, biting at his eyes. It would do. Besides, his actions were not the only prong in this attack. His homeless network would have had time to play their hand, to keep eyes on any watchers and ensure they were distracted: a convenient mugging here, a cry for help there... It would be enough.

It had to be, for John's sake.

Climbing the fence, Sherlock strode through the shadows, counting a hundred paces before he stripped off his hoodie and tied it around his waist. The cool morning air raised gooseflesh on his bare forearms, and the thin t-shirt he wore did little to block out the playful breeze that chased him along the road. 

Straightening from his feigned slouch, he flicked his fingers through his hair, wrinkling his nose at the faint tang of smoke that lingered in his curls. It would dissipate before long in the open air, and he had the time to spare. By now, John and little Rosie should already be on their way, whisked off to parts unknown. 

The temptation to return to Baker Street, to lie in wait in case his targets decided to launch some kind of assault, curled in his heart. Perhaps then he could bring this whole thing to a brutal, bloody end, but Sherlock suspected it would not be so easy. 

He had seen enough about the way they organised themselves to know that this was a professional endeavour, and he might find himself in a fight he could not win. Going back to Baker Street would do him no favours. All he could do now was ensure John's safety, and that of himself, in the hopes of buying them both some time to unravel whatever new mystery had landed in their laps.

He pursed his lips, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans and bowing his head. One part of his awareness remained conscious of his surroundings even as another dove into his Mind Palace, analysing the fresh images of the incident room: the glowing computer screens and the wall of photos. There had been many, he realised, not a mere handful of glossies, but dozens.

The most telling conclusion was that the pictures dated further back than he had thought. Sherlock had believed this situation was a recent occurrence, something that had begun since Mary's passing. Now he could see they had been watching John long before that. Sherlock recognised the occasional location or a particular combination of clothes that John was wearing. Those pertinent details let him pinpoint the images to weeks, or sometimes months before Mary had succumbed to a bullet on the floor of the aquarium. 

There were photos of Rosie, too, her growing body another clear indicator of time. Though there were fewer, they seemed to document her care-takers – Molly and Mrs Hudson, mostly.

Had they been watching Mary? Had there been pictures of her on the wall, removed once she was no longer living, or did this group, whoever they were, focus solely on John and Rosie: Mary's family? Her weakness?

Sherlock swallowed, shaking his head. It was useless supposition. He had reached a dead-end, and battling against the mental wall in his path would lead to nothing but pain and frustration. No, he needed to find out what his consultant hacker unearthed on the USB stick. Somewhere there was a connection, something that would tie his disparate theories into a web that could ensnare John's stalkers and get rid of them for good.

With a blink, he reconnected more fully with his surroundings. He had been aware of them every step of the way, his instincts standing sentry in case of any threat. Now he realised that the sun had risen, gilding the city in its gleam. The traffic on the roads grew more dense as the early commuters tried to beat the morning rush to work, and on his right the vast sprawl of Kensington Gardens lay, sparkling with dew. 

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction. His feet had taken him in the correct direction. A quick stop off in Paddington, where a locker held a bag with his usual clothes and important kit, was required. After that, he would linger in the anonymity of Marylebone station before seeking out the car at St Paul's church.

It was time to leave London behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated happy thanksgiving to my American readers!  
> Thanks for reading, B xxx
> 
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	8. Chapter Seven

Rosie slept through the long journey, sucking happily on her fingers as the scenery sped past. Even when the driver pulled over next to an almost identical car and bade them to switch, she didn't so much as stir.

_"Mycroft's getting you out of London. Pack what you need. You're going to have to trust me, John."_

Sherlock's voice echoed in his head: the brief phone-call all the information he had to go on. There had been no opportunity to argue; Sherlock hung up before he could get a word in. If not for Rosie, he might have refused – might have left the dark car idling at the kerb all day – but her safety over-ruled his stubbornness and pride. They couldn't stay where they were, and if Mycroft could smuggle them out from under their watchers' constant vigilance, then he would take the chance and be grateful.

John had only the vaguest idea where they were going, grasping at clues from signs on the motorway. North, though how far he had no clue. He assumed Mycroft did not intend to help him flee the country. He wouldn't put it past the older Holmes to have safe-houses dotted around: something to protect him against the vagaries of the world of espionage, or whatever it was he did all day.

Perhaps Sherlock had them too.

The thought made John's stomach clench, caught in that familiar tangle of emotion that he could not name: anger and fear and hope all mixed up together. Sharp and desperate, he swallowed against it, hating himself for feeling anything but loathing. If not for Sherlock Mary would be alive. He should have cut him out of his life – turned his back once and for all – yet here he was, still dancing to his tune.

Except John realised, deep down, that wasn't right. Sherlock swore this wasn't some situation he'd contrived, and John believed him. Stupid, maybe, but he knew Sherlock's shamming well. He'd seen it a dozen times before, and this did not bear the earmarks of Sherlock's intelligence. It seemed too crass, somehow, lacking in subtlety. Not like Sherlock at all.

Was it?

John sighed, tipping his head back and swallowing the faint nausea that greased his throat. The confines of the car pressed against his skin even as the whirl of his thoughts trapped him within their cocoon. Sick and claustrophobic, he cracked the window, drawing in a lungful of sharp, cold air as the vehicle hummed along the M6 toll road. 

He needed to see Sherlock, to meet him face-to-face. He needed to see the truth of his words with his own eyes. Anger simmered in his veins, aimless, and John clenched his teeth in an effort to calm the roil of his emotions. Control. That was what he needed; some element of fucking control, and if that meant he had to confront the man, then so be it.

His leg ached, and he clenched a hand around it, watching the world rush by through half-closed eyes. Exhaustion nibbled at the edges of his mind, but he couldn't let go and drift into slumber. Not until he knew where they were going and made sure Rosie was truly safe. Adrenaline's flow kept him awake, hovering in the glassy, jet-lagged state of the sleep-deprived, and he barely noticed as they turned off the broad expanse of the motorway and into narrower, tree-lined streets.

'Where are we?'

'Mottram Saint Andrew, Sir,' the driver informed him. 'A short distance to the south of Manchester.'

John had never heard of it, and he raised an eyebrow as they passed several large, gated mansions. Not stately homes, but new builds, modern and understated. There were other houses, more normal ones, and a neat little high street. The car carried on through, fastidiously obeying the speed limit, until they reached a long driveway.

He wasn't sure what he expected. Some gargantuan pile, probably, but the house was a comfortable, red-brick structure set in a wide expanse of parkland. The car's tyres crunched over the gravel as it came to a halt, and John clambered out, taking a deep breath of fresh air that smelled of cut grass rather than exhaust fumes. It eased the headache that drummed in his temples, and he rubbed his eyes before bending down to free Rosie from her car seat.

She roused herself with a grumpy little noise, wrinkling her nose in distaste before settling against John's chest. The driver retrieved the hastily packed duffel bags, leading the way to the front door before gesturing John forward. 'If you could place your thumb on the lock, Sir.'

John blinked, looking down at the sleek, black panel where a key-hole should be before pressing his thumb to the screen. A moment later, the door's bolts slid open, allowing him to push his way inside. He neither knew nor cared when and where Mycroft had got his fingerprints. After all, the older Holmes had plenty of opportunity over the years. 

'You should find everything that you need, Sir, including for the little one. There is twenty-four-hour digital surveillance around the perimeter of the property, and all points of entry are alarmed. There is also a panic room which is accessible through the kitchen.'

John blinked, wondering what Mycroft had in mind when he created this fortress. 'Right, er... thanks.'

'Mister Holmes should be arriving in an hour or two,' the driver added, offering a quick smile before stepping back. 'Should you require any assistance, there are helpful numbers to dial by the phone. Good day, Sir.'

John nodded his farewell, trying not to feel as if he were being abandoned. Still, unease tangled through his ribs as he watched the driver depart: his last connection to London and the home he'd left behind. Mycroft would be here soon to get him up to speed; in the meantime, he had best familiarise himself with the place.

'Well,' he sighed, bouncing his daughter gently. 'Let's see what we've got, shall we?'

The fridge and kitchen cupboards were well-stocked with food, fresh and tinned. Jars of baby mash for Rosie gleamed, and there was an expensive looking blender so he could puree things up for her, as well as boxes of formula. 

One wall of the living room was lined with book-cases and, to his surprise, a large TV occupied the space over the dark fireplace. There was a nursery and cot for Rosie upstairs, and several bedrooms for John to choose from, all the beds freshly made and waiting. There were even clothes in his size, plus spare outfits for Rosie, which was just as well. His packing had been slap-dash and panicked at best.

A play mat caught his attention, and he picked it up, chattering to Rosie as he detoured back downstairs to the living room. Once she was settled on the soft fabric, giggling at the hanging felt toys and flashing lights above her, he turned towards the bags he'd brought. John kept one eye on Rosie as he sorted through what they had and came to terms with the things he'd forgotten.

In reality, he'd not done too badly. Mary would be proud. He'd managed to remember all the essentials, from a toothbrush and razor to nappies for Rosie. Neither of them had anything to sleep in, though, and the only shoes he had were the ones on his feet. Still, he'd count his efforts as a victory. God knew he needed one today.

He plugged in the baby monitor, flicking it on and clipping the receiver to his belt as he set about putting away their meagre possessions. How long would they call this place home? A few days, a week, more? 

He had no idea how Mycroft intended to explain his absence from the surgery. Perhaps he'd push the grieving angle and let them make their own assumptions. Maybe he would simply inform them that John would not be returning. He bloody well hoped not. Of everything in his life at the moment, his job was an anchor; something uniquely his. Even now, he felt bereft without it.

Pottering around, he set about making this strange space feel a bit more like home, turning on the heating to chase away the chill in the air and familiarising himself with the state-of-the-art security system. He moved Rosie's cot into one of the bedrooms. He couldn't sleep apart from her; not now. Everything felt too tenuous and unfamiliar. As it was, he kept looping back to the living room every few minutes to sit at her side, tickling her chin and watching her giggle and drool.

She stayed on the play mat for almost half an hour, intrigued by the new input before growing bored. As soon as that happened, John stopped what he was doing and gave her his full attention. At seven months old, she had learned how to commando crawl across the floor, and now Rosie set about exploring her surroundings with clumsy hands and beaming smiles. She'd be walking before long, which delighted and terrified John in equal measure.

John talked to her all the while, describing the items that took her interest. There had been what looked like a toy box upstairs, full of brand-new unopened packaging, as if Mycroft had handed over a credit card and bade some minion to buy anything they deemed appropriate. He would have to take a look when Rosie next slept and sort out more to keep her entertained. 

Eventually, she started to fuss, and John picked her up, shifting her weight over onto one hip as he walked through to the kitchen, setting about mixing a bottle for her. She was at that awkward stage where she was half-weaned, eating a mix of milk and various nutritious baby foods. He had to start getting back into their routine in the next few days, he realised, or she'd be hell to deal with. Not that he could blame her. He felt like having a good cry himself, ripped up from everything familiar and left adrift.

He had just sorted out her bottle and settled her down in the high chair to drink it when he heard the click of the lock on the front door. Shuffling footsteps scuffed over the hall floor, and John frowned. He'd never known Mycroft's stride to be anything but firm and confident. Uncertainty raced down his spine, and he wet his lips, glancing at Rosie before he turned and peered around the half-open kitchen door.

Sherlock.

He stood in the front hall, his head cocked as he took in John's coat hanging on the nearby rack. A curse whispered through John's mind, and he rubbed a hand over his face as he thought back. Of course, the driver had not said which "Mister Holmes" would be here soon. John had made an assumption: a bloody stupid one at that.

Part of him wanted to snatch Rosie from the high chair and flee, to escape the confrontation he knew loomed on the horizon. Despite his earlier convictions, he didn't feel ready to face Sherlock. Not now and maybe not ever, but here he was, left with no choice in the matter. All he could do was stand there and stare, scowling as he took in all the little ways in which Sherlock had changed over the past few weeks.

A faint frown cinched Sherlock's brow, darkening the shadows that pressed their marks beneath his eyes. His clothes, casual and baggy, reminded John of finding Sherlock back in that bloody drug-den, high as a kite. At least this time, his gaze seemed clear of any stupor and no stubble lined his jaw. He may look tired and scruffy, but he was not nearly so unkempt: a disguise, then, rather than anything else.

Sherlock turned abruptly, that full mouth pinched as he saw John standing in the doorway. God knew what he looked like. Furious, probably, his arms folded across his chest and his back ramrod straight, every angle of his body screaming his rejection. 

Not even the sharpness of Sherlock's cheekbones – too thin; he'd not been eating properly – could ease the jagged rasp of John's anger over the frayed edges of his nerves. Each breath felt strange and futile, and each beat of his heart made his skin pulse and throb, feeding the urge to punch and snap and snarl that had taken root within his blood.

'John. I didn't realise Mycroft had brought you here.'

That voice. God, John wished he could hate it. By all rights he should. Anyone sane would have turned their back on Sherlock long ago. Instead, here he stood, desperate to cling to his bitterness even as some of the tension vanished from his shoulders, soothed away by Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock's lips parted, and John watched him dither, a neat leather holdall clutched in his hand. 'I can go elsewhere,' he murmured, bowing his head and turning back towards the door. 'I did not mean to intrude.'

'Wait.' The word tore itself from him, and he watched Sherlock sway, caught halfway through the act of making his retreat. He observed John over his shoulder, those silver eyes bright. 'Just, wait. I need to know what's happening. _Why_ it's happening. What's going on, Sherlock?'

The tip of Sherlock's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, his gaze shifting to the side as if he were considering the option of a kind lie, only to dismiss it a moment later. Instead, he faced John fully, tipping his head to one side. 'May I come in?'

John swallowed and stepped back into the kitchen, allowing Sherlock to cross the threshold. He did not scan the room as John had done when he first entered. Maybe it was a more familiar space to Sherlock, one he'd seen before. Instead, his eyes alighted on Rosie, and John watched that slender body twitch as if he were stifling the urge to reach out for her. 

Despite all John's expectations to the contrary, Sherlock treated Rosie with upmost respect and something that bordered on honest affection. He spoke to her as he might an adult, but without any of the harshness that so often limned his other conversations. It had not occurred to John before that Sherlock might miss her.

'I'm glad she's safe.' The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile: there and gone again. He lowered his bag to the floor before tucking his hands into his pockets and leaning against the kitchen surface, propping his weight against it. Whether it was a deliberate effort at being casual or something Sherlock's weary body needed, John couldn't say. All he knew was that it pricked his temper, Sherlock looking so at ease when John's life had fallen to ruin around him.

'Talk,' he barked, lifting his chin and straightening his shoulders: every inch Captain Watson. It was the only defence he knew, the only way to offer some balance to the maelstrom of emotion that rose in his throat and caught his heart in a tempest. 'Tell me what this is all about.'

Sherlock sighed, his eyes looking everywhere but at John as he seemed to consider his words with care. 'Mycroft and I have been exploring every possible angle. So far, all we've found is more questions.' He met John's gaze, his jaw tense. 'This has nothing to do with Moriarty. Rather, I think it might be about Mary and her past.'

John huffed, jerking his head in quick denial even as the words sank in. It had crossed his mind; how could it not? One of the questions that came circling back to him was why now? Why, when Mary was gone, had this begun? Was it simply one of Sherlock's enemies choosing a moment of weakness, or was Mary's death a trigger for something unknown and unseen?

'Like what?' he asked. He thought of the thumb drive, condemned to the flames in Sherlock's family home. His bitterest wish was that the bloody thing never existed at all. It had been the totem of Mary's deceit, but his destruction of it had not erased the stain her actions left on their relationship.

'That's what I'm still trying to discern.' Sherlock watched him like a hawk, reading God-knew-what from every flicker of his features. How much did it cost him, John wondered, to keep his body so relaxed in the face of John's undeniable tension? He felt wound tight: a spring about to snap – a gun with a hair-trigger, liable to fire at any moment. 

'I caused a distraction back in London, something to captivate your observers' attention so you could get away unseen. I'm hoping some of what I found in their base of operations will help unravel this once and for all.'

'That doesn't explain why you're here.' John's voice cracked on the last word, wounded, though he wished he could hide it. Sherlock made him feel too raw and volatile, torn between tears and punches. His throat closed, making his next breath stutter between his lips, and he clenched his jaw to stifle the grimace that ripped at his mouth.

'Because once they realise you're gone, Baker Street will be the first place they look for you. Mrs Hudson is staying with her sister. I left London to prevent a number of potential repercussions.'

John shrugged, not following. His molasses-slow thoughts felt like lead pressing against his skull. He didn't understand this – not any of it. 'Like what?'

Sherlock shifted his weight, lowering his gaze for the first time and speaking instead to the tiles beneath their feet. 'I felt they might believe they could use me as a means to get to you. So far, they have left me out of the equation, but I was not convinced they would continue to do so.' He swallowed. 'They might have decided you would give yourself up if you believed I were in danger.'

They would be right. 

The certainty took him by surprise, even as it filled his heart with heat. Despite everything, if he knew Sherlock were in trouble, he would still come running, and damn the consequences to himself. 

Some things, it seemed, never changed, even if he wanted them to.

'So you came here.' His voice fell flat around them, and Sherlock winced.

'I can go,' he promised, gesturing towards the door. 'There are other safe-houses.'

He considered it. The silence stretched out, moments becoming minutes as John chewed on his lip. Sherlock did not pressure him; he did not utter a word. He simply stood awaiting John's banishment. 

That's what it would be; he could see that. It would not just be Sherlock he punished if he shoved him out of the door. John would suffer as well. Setting aside the obvious benefit of having Sherlock here to help protect Rosie, there was also one simple truth: John had missed him. 

He hated it, but he could not deny that Sherlock's presence brought him some relief. Not from the turmoil of his emotions, but from the tight, anxious energy that consumed his every waking moment. Despite everything, Sherlock, more than anyone else, made him feel safe. 

John could not deprive himself of that small comfort.

With a deep breath, he bowed his head, tightening his folded arms across his chest as if he could somehow hold himself together even as he longed to fall apart. As much as he wished he could pull away and enforce the distance between them, John knew he did not have the strength.

Not anymore.

'Stay.'


	9. Chapter Eight

_The eerie calm of the aquarium pressed down around his ears, an auditory anomaly amidst the chaos of the scene. Norbury, the gun still gripped in her trembling hand. Mary, gasping for air. John's expression, all cold blankness and, at the base of that pit, a growing rage. The unmarked floor. Mary's stuttering last words and the bustle of the paramedics: already too late. The police with their questions and the creeping realisation that something had broken apart with Mary's death, cracking open a bubble that Sherlock had not even known existed._

_Change rushed in._

Sherlock opened his eyes to the meek dawn light that crept around the curtains, frowning as the details of the dream slipped through his fingers. Something nagged at him: not the emotional echoes of it, but some small, pertinent detail he had seen but not observed. It painted an accusation that his waking moments stole away from him.

A whispering breath passed his lips, and he rolled over in the unfamiliar bed, punching at his pillow in an effort to get comfortable. There would be no going back to sleep now. Further rest would elude him. Perhaps he should have done as he originally intended and stayed up all night poring over the evidence he had been able to gather. It could have been time well-spent.

Except that the safe-house felt like a mausoleum, haunted by John's anger and Mary's ever-present shade. Rosie's laughter was the only joy in the place, startling when juxtaposed with her father's brittle sentiment.

John did not know what to do with himself. He had told Sherlock to stay, and then spent the day alternately trying to put as much distance between them as possible and swinging back into his orbit, full of anger and disapproval. Sherlock had not dared dig too deep into Mary's affairs, not with John hovering over his shoulder and bristling with aimless outrage.

Now, the house lay silent around him, the air still and peaceful. Rosie and John would be asleep nearby. Sherlock bit his lip, pulling back the bed covers and slipping from the nest of his blankets before creeping downstairs. He felt like a thief stealing through this foreign territory: little more than a ghost himself. Perhaps that's all he was; an inconvenient phantom of an existence John had left behind long ago.

Shaking aside the morose thought, Sherlock inched down the stairs and padded towards the breakfast bar, his bare toes curling against the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. Various papers and his laptop remained where he had left them, neither strewn about in plain sight nor hidden away like a guilty secret. There was nothing stopping John from investigating them if the urge took him, and yet they remained untouched.

That was not the John that Sherlock knew. He had never been content to let someone else solve his problems, and deep down, Sherlock suspected that had not changed. No, given time, John would succumb to his own grim curiosity. He would seek out the answers that Sherlock had promised to find. His current indifference had its root in some alternative sentiment. Guilt, perhaps, or resentment. Oh, he would never put it in so many words, but just because John had asked for Sherlock's help did not mean he was happy to accept it.

Sherlock sighed, perching on the stool at the kitchen island and starting up the laptop before he dove once more into the various AGRA files. He examined them from all possible angles as his mind spun out along sparkling avenues of theory and supposition. Mary was the inception point of this, he was certain. She was the ignition and the nexus all at once. Every thread he could pluck led back to her, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes as his deductions faltered.

While he considered Mary a friend, he had only known the person that she pretended to be. Had they assumed that the woman who told them about AGRA had been revealing her true self, when Mary had simply removed one mask to expose another beneath it? How much of what he had known of her was a beautiful fiction? How much of it was an ugly truth?

Some of it must have been. No lie could be absolute. There always had to be kernels of fact, or the whole edifice of deception came tumbling down. That was what he needed to find. Not Mary's lies, which he suspected were plentiful, but her truths. The little parts of herself that, even after years of secrecy, remained honest.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face, allowing his awareness to plummet into the depths of his Mind Palace. He recalled Mary as he had first known her: a glossy, wax-work model of herself, shallow and benign. Ordinary in almost every way. It was a caricature, something Mary had carefully crafted to show the world, and it had worked. Even Sherlock had been fooled, at least for a little while.

The light shifted, carving deep shadows across Mary's face, hinting at the depths that lay beneath. Her smile faded, ebbing from sight as the gun gleamed in her hand. Sherlock's chest ached: a sharp, bitter memory held not in his mind but in his flesh. Back then, he had told John it was surgical – that Mary never meant to kill him. He had not wanted to be the catalyst for the annihilation of John’s marriage.

Had she truly spared his life with the placement of her bullet? He doubted it. More than likely, her precision had been affected by a rush of sentiment. Not for Sherlock himself – the friendship they had managed at that point was wary at best – but for John. 

Even then, Mary had known that hurting Sherlock would hurt John in turn. Had she feared that ending his life would have brought John to his knees in a way she could not cure? Had it been a conscious decision, or had all this been something lain down deep within her instincts, forcing the bullet slightly lower and leaving the outcome of the wound ambiguous at best?

Sherlock flicked his fingers. In this, at least, Mary's intentions were irrelevant. In Magnusson's office, weapon in hand, Mary had acted to protect herself. Basic motivations were always the most honest, and Mary had been taking care of her own interests for years. They remained her number one priority, right up to the moment she had stepped in to the path of Norbury's gun.

His thoughts stopped, the scene frozen in the panorama of his mind's eye. The eerie blue of the aquarium rippled around him; northern lights made terrestrial by the undulating waves. Fish hung suspended. Bubbles pocking the vista like perfect, improbable spheres. The humid, heavy scent of water filled his nose, treated for just the right salinity and pH. It was an arena of control with chaos at its heart: Sherlock and Mary, Norbury and the pistol.

The cough of the silencer, the glitter of gunshot residue, and Mary throwing herself into harm's way.

No. _Placing_ herself in harm's way.

Sherlock shifted, moving around the motionless tableau and taking in the angles of Mary's body. He had not seen her face. There would be nothing of fact written in her expression. Her truths lay in the poise of her muscles and the stretch of her joints. He saw it now: not the panicked sprawl of a split-second decision, but something graceful. Mary had not leapt in front of the gun, she'd stepped before it, putting herself directly in the bullet's path.

This had been pre-conceived, but why?

How did saving Sherlock serve Mary?

He was under no illusion about the facts. Regardless of their friendship, Mary's life would be eminently closer to the "normal" she claimed to desire if Sherlock was gone. He was not, and never had been, part of her plan. He was a facet she tolerated for John's sake. Perhaps she even understood that in some ways, he helped John to be the husband she wanted, more accepting of normality as long as he had a little bit of Sherlock's wildness to soothe his cravings for adrenaline. 

Yet saving Sherlock at the cost of herself? What did Mary gain from that?

'Superficial.' Sherlock whispered, his gaze skimming the aquarium glass, taking in the reflections more than the fish beyond. 'Go deeper.'

Nothing. She had nothing to gain, because none of it was ever about Sherlock. He had been a prop within the act of Mary’s play that unfolded to her direction. She and Norbury were already connected: tied together by the past they shared with AGRA. What if there was more to it? What if, right from the start, Mary had not merely been a tool of the British Government and beyond? What if she'd been a puppet master, pulling the strings even as she pretended to dance to another's tune?

Was it possible? Of course. Sherlock may have turned a blind eye to many of Mary's qualities for fear of what he would really see, but he had never doubted her determination. She saw what she wanted, and she got it, no matter the cost.

And what did she want from this? What did she hope to achieve in the aquarium?

An ending. How could it be anything else? What could be more final than a bullet to the chest and blood blooming bright across the canvas of her shirt? Had she done it for herself? Was it an attempt at control when, perhaps, she felt everything was slipping through her grasp? Or was it more than that – an effort to keep John and Rosie safe from the past that kept nipping at her heels?

Sherlock opened his eyes, jolting in surprise when he noticed the quality of light. The sun had risen more fully, spilling its wealth through the windows and gleaming off the tilework. The kettle boiled on the kitchen surface, and Rosie sat in her high chair, decorating herself and the room around her with what looked like some kind of banana puree. John stood by the toaster, dressed in his pyjamas, his bare feet wriggling against the floor, unexpectedly vulnerable.

Sherlock blinked, baffled and trying not to read too much into it. This was not a conscious choice. No doubt Rosie had awoken John and he had prioritised her own needs over his desire to appear strong and confident in Sherlock's presence. That was the only reason John had not dressed before emerging from his room; there was nothing more to it than that.

Was there?

'Tea?' John did not turn to face him as he asked the question, and something twisted deep in Sherlock's belly. He could almost pretend that things were back to normal between them: comfortable and close. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine they weren't like two shards of glass, constantly drawing blood with their jagged edges.

Yet that was not the truth of the matter. In the end, living in a fantasy would get him nowhere. If he and John were to move past this, then they needed to press on through the pain and hurt, no matter how much they would both rather ignore it.

'Yes please,' he murmured at last, rubbing at the ache that sparked beneath his temples. 'How long have you been up?'

'About twenty minutes. You were lost to the world.'

John turned, and Sherlock hid his wince at the dark shadows underneath those downcast eyes. Blond hair stood up in all directions, a testament to his restless night. His skin held a grey cast, and his movements were shuffling and stiff as he approached the kitchen island, carrying two mugs of tea with care.

He sat at the far end, the space between them demanding to be bridged, but Sherlock had no idea where to start. A cacophony of words pressed against his lips, but he could give none of them voice, not when he was terrified that one wrong utterance could push John away forever.

'Have you had any luck?' John glanced at him from the corner of his eye, his face tense as he sipped from his mug of tea. 'Found anything else?'

'Nothing concrete.' Sherlock pressed his fingertips to the table and smoothed along its edge as if he could find the answer he needed written in the granite. 'I have theories – suspicions – but...' He shrugged. 'No real proof.'

'Yesterday you said it was about AGRA. What – what could it be? I thought that was all over.'

'So did I.' Sherlock pursed his lips, unwilling to say anything against Mary when John was like this: coiled tight and brittle. 'As I said, I only have theories.'

'That's never stopped you before.'

The accusation cut through the air, brutal and pointed. John glared at him, his gaze cutting across the intervening distance, daring Sherlock to protest. 

'I would rather have evidence,' he managed, struggling to keep his voice steady. 'I would not wish to cause you needless pain.'

'Pain?' John laughed, an awful, mirthless sound that made Sherlock's blood run cold. 'You've already caused plenty of that. Why stop now?'

'John –'

John slammed his mug on the surface, the hot drink slopping over the rim. Those blunt, capable hand shook like leaves trembling in a gale, and John’s voice was nothing but a reed-thin croak, rapidly unravelling.

'No, Sherlock. Just... no. Solve this so Rosie and I can get back to our lives. Make it the last thing you do for us. Then we can all be happy.'

'Would you?' Sherlock’s question lay like a thrown gauntlet between them. ‘Or would you find a way to continue blaming me for your own misery?' He straightened his shoulders. He could not deny that his arrogance had led him to underestimate Norbury, but there was a limit to the amount of responsibility he would carry without protest. 'I did not pull the trigger, John.'

'No, you just drove a woman with nothing to lose to her breaking point. Just like you do with everyone else, too wrapped up in your own brilliance to see the harm you cause!' John heaved in a breath, the chair scraping over the floor as he surged upright, all trace of his earlier stiffness and pain gone, eradicated by his anger. 'Your actions have consequences, Sherlock! They always have, and now my wife is dead!'

A sob scraped up John's throat, and Sherlock flinched as Rosie joined her father in his tears. John's were silent: great, shuddering things as he pressed his hands over his face, trying to hide. Sherlock dithered before scooping Rosie from her high chair and cradling her against his chest. She clung to him with banana-smeared fingers, but gradually his warmth and gentle shushing eased her fear: more likely brought on by John's shouts than anything else. She, at least, was easy to comfort.

With John, he didn't know where to start. 

He moved Rosie over to his hip before tentatively touching John's arm, giving him the chance to recoil before enfolding him in a one-armed embrace. John's body was like a steel bar, rigid and unyielding even as he buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, concealing his distress. 

It was a hurricane of more emotion than Sherlock dared to categorise. He could feel the force of it shaking every inch of John’s frame, ripping itself from him like foulness purged from a wound. Nothing he could say would ease his pain. Nothing he could do would make it easier. He could only stand there, offering gentle touches and silent support as he let John ride it out.

After what felt like an age, John’s tension ebbed, replaced by the drag of exhaustion. The wracking sobs subsided to hitched, pained breaths, and Sherlock closed his eyes, blinking away the sharp scratch of emotion that stung at the seam of his lashes.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, his own hand trembling as he stroked John's back. 'I'm sorry that it ever came to this.' 

John spluttered for air, too far gone for words. Even his anger could not act as a bulwark now. His shallow gasps grew deeper as the maelstrom abated, leaving his weight sagged against Sherlock's side, spent and shaking. 

The flutter of his breath at Sherlock collar stirred eddies of sensation in its wake, but he pushed it aside: inconvenient. This, John's outburst, could be a catharsis, but it was just as likely to be one of many bumps in the road of his grief. John certainly did not feel better as he leant against Sherlock's side, heavy and shrunken as if born down by some great weight, rather than relieved of his burdens.

Rosie hiccupped, and her whimper stirred John from his stupor. He took her from Sherlock's arms, not snatching her away but cradling her tight all the same as he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. 'It's all right, Rosie. We're all right.'

Liar. The accusation rattled around Sherlock's teeth, but he did not free it. He would let John keep his comfortable fibs. Now, more than ever, he could see that John was unravelling at his seams, all his pieces coming apart despite his best efforts to hold himself together. 

Would it be a destruction, Sherlock wondered, his heart skipping in the base of his throat, or a metamorphosis? Would John crumble to ash, or would he be tempered by the flames of this? He could not say, and that, more than anything else, was what shook Sherlock to his core. 

Losing John was not an option, and he would do everything in his power to prevent it.


	10. Chapter Nine

The pounding in his head drummed at John's temples, matched only by the low thrum of mortification burning his cheeks. He had not meant to break down, but the strain of the past few weeks had crashed over him like a tidal wave, heavy and dark. All his doubts swirled through the shadows, bubbles through water, leaving him dizzy as his tears rose up to choke him.

And Sherlock, who even now tended to shy away from overt displays of sentiment, had gathered first Rosie and then him into his embrace. He behaved as if, despite all of John's animosity, the two of them were still something to be cherished: the tragic remnants of a broken little family.

'Sorry,' John whispered as he eased away, not sure if he was talking to Rosie or Sherlock. His daughter gurgled against his chest, and he smiled down at her, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. He missed the feeling of Sherlock's arm around him – of his warmth when everything in John's life felt cold and stark – but he held himself at a distance, refusing to give in to the weak, whining want for such a simple comfort.

He didn't deserve it.

'You have nothing to apologise for.' Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, looking down at his own bare feet as if struggling to pick a clear way forward. The air between them hummed with everything that remained unsaid, but John did not have the strength to give any of it voice. His tears had exhausted him, shattering his anger and leaving him hollow.

He couldn't even say they were for Mary, not really. They were for himself, for the place he found himself, threatened and trapped and lost, wanting to rely on Sherlock as he had before but not allowing himself to do so. How could he, when to do it would be a betrayal to Mary? A different kind of affair.

 _'You love him,'_ she'd said once. _'I see it every time you look at him.'_

Now she lay not two months in the ground and John had already found his way back to Sherlock's side.

He had never felt so sick at himself.

'I need to – to sort out Rosie,' he stammered, clutching at excuses as he beat a hasty retreat, leaving Sherlock with no further explanation. He couldn't offer anything else, not when he did not know whether what escaped him would be another useless tirade or a pleading litany: _go away/don't ever leave._

God, he was such a fucking mess.

He settled Rosie in the middle of the king-size mattress he had claimed as his own, making sure she couldn't roll off as he set about getting her clean and dressed for the day. It was a fumbling chore of fiddly little clasps and her happy squeals as he tickled her, smiling despite himself. It was a distraction: a way to step back from his breakdown in the kitchen. His therapist would have given him that look: nothing so obvious as blatant disapproval, but he could imagine the hint of sadness in her eyes.

Him falling into the same old habits, like he was stuck in some awful cycle that he could not break.

Downstairs, Sherlock shuffled around, making himself another cup of tea, perhaps, or merely pacing the kitchen as he organised his thoughts. The sight of him that morning, lost within the vaults of his Mind Palace when John came down for breakfast, was so familiar that John ached with it. He had not realised how much he missed Sherlock's presence; how much he relied on him, even now.

'Down you go,' John murmured, putting Rosie in the travel play-pen along with a few toys to keep her distracted. He needed to get clean, to wash away the salty tracks his tears had left in their wake and shake off the tremulous emotion that still fluttered in his throat. 'I'll be back soon.'

The hot water belted down over his head, and John closed his eyes, wishing for a moment that it could drown him and take all his worries away. More and more, it all felt like too much. Mary's death, the people watching him, and above all else the aching uncertainty that lay between him and Sherlock: a chasm of his own making, and one he didn't know how to bridge.

He wasn't even sure if he wanted to try.

John sighed, scrubbing shampoo through his hair and soaping his body as his thoughts whirled. It all felt insurmountable: one thing after another when he was at his weakest, stacked upon him like a teetering pinnacle about to come crashing down around his ears.

What should he do? Keep shoring up its failing foundations, or let it fall and try and build something new from the ruins left in its wake?

He pressed his brow against the cold, slick tiles, his jaw clenched tight enough that his teeth ached. Back in the army, one of his COs had often repeated the phrase "the only way out is through." They weren't just talking about battlefields and hostage situations, but any challenge every man, woman and child ever faced. 

He could worry about the mess he found himself in all he liked, but that alone would not set it to rights. No, he needed to press forward. He needed to face it all, no matter how much he longed to curl up and bury his head in the sand.

Flicking off the water, John wrapped a towel around his waist and glanced through the bathroom doorway to check Rosie was still where he had left her. Satisfied that she had not escaped, he set about drying himself off and running a razor over his stubbled jaw, falling back into old routines like a soldier donning his uniform.

Taking a steadying breath, John got dressed in the clean clothes he'd brought into the bathroom with him, finding strength in tough denim and the familiar weight of his jumper. 

The most important thing about a battle was to know who you were up against. In all of this, despite all that he had done, Sherlock was not his enemy. John had to try and stop treating him like one: lashing out without rhyme or reason would get them nowhere. He could only be thankful that Sherlock had resisted John's efforts to push him away, but eventually, he would reach his breaking point. No, John had to get himself under control, or he would cast off the only true ally he had left.

Hanging up his towel to dry, he made the bed and tidied up Rosie's clutter before scooping his daughter back in to his arms. The scent of baby shampoo filled his nose, and he smiled at her as he squared his shoulders and trotted downstairs.

Sherlock still occupied the kitchen, his gaze no longer vivid-mirror glass, but clear and shadowed with concern. His fingers danced over the keys of his laptop, pulling who knew what from the ether. John watched the elegant waltz, his eyes drawn to the vulnerable turn of Sherlock's wrists. He hadn't been eating enough; his angular body gave that away. Sherlock's default state was one of semi-benign neglect, and John swallowed a hard knot as he realised that Sherlock, too, had been grieving.

Anger flared again, but he stamped it down. He'd already spent so much of yesterday rattling around this house like a pinball in a machine, constantly pulled back to Sherlock's side only for his resentment to propel him away again. It had got him nowhere, leaving him to spin in the same stupid circles. This was about moving forward, getting through it, not being trapped in a rut of his own making.

'Anything?' John asked, pursing his lips. As peace-offerings went, it was paltry, but it was all he had to give. 'Anything new, I mean?' He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember what Sherlock had reluctantly imparted yesterday. Bits and pieces stuck out, like Sherlock's suspicion that all this somehow tied back to Mary.

Sherlock paused in his typing, smoothing his fingers down the laptop screen, oddly reverent. John thought he saw those hands tremble, and Sherlock's throat convulsed as he swallowed, tilting his head to one side in acknowledgement.

'The USB stick, the one you threw in the fire when you made your choice about Mary... I took a copy.'

He shouldn't be surprised, John thought. He'd never asked Sherlock not to. During that whole, fraught period, Sherlock had kept his distance. Despite his own involvement – despite the fact that Mary had almost cost him his God-damn life – he had left as much of the situation in John's hands as he felt able. He had not tried to steer him one way or another, but John should have known he would have made some contingency plans.

'Did you read it?'

'At the time? No.' Sherlock met John's gaze without a hint of deception. 'But nor could I ignore the possibility that, at some point, something in Mary's past may re-emerge to hurt you: all of you.'

'And you were right.'

'Yes, but I'm not sure it's what you're thinking.'

Sherlock got to his feet, closing the laptop and tucking it under his arm before gesturing through to the living room. 'Come on. Rosie, at least, might as well be comfortable while I explain.'

Trepidation coiled low in John's gut. Sherlock did not rest a hand in the small of his back to guide him, nor reach out in any way. Did he want him to? John couldn't be sure. All he knew was that the tension in his body inched higher by the moment, getting worse with every step he took. He did not wish to face this: whatever it was.

He set Rosie down on her play-mat, noting the fire that danced in the grate behind a safety screen. The warmth of it kissed his skin, and he sat down in the armchair nearest it, reaching his hands out to the heat as if it could sustain him. He expected Sherlock to perch in the chair opposite, and a flicker of surprise darted through his veins when instead he sat cross-legged on the floor, halfway between John and Rosie.

Was it deliberate? Did Sherlock do it because he knew that whatever affected John would affect Rosie as well? Or was it just instinct that made Sherlock ignore the more comfortable furniture and put himself in easy reach of Rosie should she need him? He almost asked the question out loud, but shook it away as Sherlock opened up the laptop again. The glow of it bathed his face as John stared at his down-bent head.

'Most of the files were simply details of AGRA. At first glance, I thought Mary was protecting herself: outlining previous missions and keeping an account of anything that went wrong in case she was ever brought up on charges. She needed something to prove she was acting on orders.' 

'But?'

'But a closer examination shows inconsistencies. Obfuscations. Almost like these files were designed to appease the curious.' Sherlock sighed, meeting John's eye with apology bright in his gaze. 'There is one folder, heavily encrypted, that an associate is unlocking for me. I do not know what we will find within it, but we cannot rule out the fact that Mary's past may include something beyond AGRA.'

John twitched, his body jostling itself in bitter denial even as his stomach clenched in grim acknowledgement. Sherlock would not lie to him, not about this. John knew him better than that. Sherlock's untruths, such as they were, were often crafted in the name of protecting John, either from physical danger or from the surge of his own emotions. There was no such saving grace in the facts he laid out before him now. It was brutal honesty: nothing more and nothing less.

'You think that's why we're being watched?'

'Almost certainly, but until we discover the nature of what Mary concealed, we cannot act against your observers. They want something, but without knowing what that is, I'm afraid there's little we can do.'

'How long until your friend has decoded the file?' He swallowed. 'How long are we stuck here?'

'I hope to receive the decrypted version by tomorrow at the latest. As for our stay in the safe house...' Sherlock paused, looking as adrift as John felt. 'I can't be sure.'

John bowed his head, his acceptance like a cold wind on the back of his neck. Lashing heat in the pit of his stomach urged him to strike out – to fight against all the constraints that held him in this helpless limbo – but there was nothing physical to hit. Only Sherlock was here to take the brunt of his wrath, and John refused to sink so low. 

A gentle hand on his shoulder made him look up, and he drew in a shuddering breath as he realised that Sherlock knelt before him, those moonlight eyes wide and intent.

'We will get to the bottom of this, John. I promise you.'

Harsh words burned the tip of John's tongue: a cold reminder of the vow Sherlock had already broken when Mary died. Yet he choked it back, swallowing it down and burying it deep in his gut, flint-sharp and heavy. 

'What else?' he croaked, clearing his throat and running his hands down his thighs, banishing the clammy sweat that had sprung up across his palms. 'You mentioned you had found where they were based?'

'Yes. There was plenty of documentation: photographs of you and Rosie. You've been under surveillance for a while. Their outfit was organised and well-equipped, suggesting they're not some small, vigilante group. Rather they are the spearhead unit of something bigger.'

'Bigger like what?'

'I'm not sure.' Sherlock sat back on his heels. 'Mycroft does not believe it's an officially sanctioned team, which suggests they are not associated with any foreign or national power.'

'So they're something else. Something like Moriarty?' John's teeth barred tight against the name, even as it slipped free. That's the last thing they needed; Sherlock growing obsessed with some new mad genius hell-bent on taking them down.

'No, they're more military than that.' Sherlock ran his thumbnail over his own lip, his gaze losing some of its focus as he considered the evidence. 'Or at least combat adjacent. The people watching you have a soldier's bearing, and their base was set up like a military operation. They are a unit, much like AGRA in many respects, though their _modus operandi_ may vary significantly.'

'They're soldiers?'

'Of a sort. Everything I saw indicated that these people are not trained for surveillance, or perhaps they are simply unpractised. When they were watching you, they stood out. Anyone who knew what to look for would know them for what they were. You included.'

John said nothing, recalling the wash of his own doubts and grim fears of paranoia. Back at the beginning, he had been furious at the thought of Sherlock using his homeless network to keep tabs on him. Now he wished it was so blissfully benign.

'When they invaded your home, were they looking for something?'

Closing his eyes, John scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to remember anything but the tatters of his own fear. 'No, I – I don't think so. They didn't go through drawers or cupboards. They came upstairs, after Rosie and me.'

'That doesn't rule out that particular avenue. They might have wanted to save time by forcing you to retrieve whatever they were looking for.'

'Or they might have only been interested in us.' John stared at his daughter, his heart cracked through with dread at the thought of losing her too. He drew in a stuttering breath, his voice whispering between his lips: little more than a hint of sound. 'I thought it would be easier.'

Sherlock cocked his head, a frown pleating his brow as he waited for John to continue.

'I thought that Mary's secrets would die with her. That they'd follow her to the grave.' A sob hitched in his throat, and he swallowed hard. 'I thought it was over: all the stuff with AGRA.' Guilt rose around him, an inky tide that leached the heat from his skin and left him shuddering in its wake. 'I was relieved that part of her was gone.'

Sherlock watched him, his expression unreadable. Of course, to Sherlock, Mary was intrinsically tied up with AGRA. He had not been privy to many of John and Mary's quiet moments. He had not been involved in the relationship they had built, first in ignorance, and then in spite of all the secrets. There had been a friendship between them though, and John wondered how much Sherlock himself missed her. How much of the strain he could see etching Sherlock's features was because of Mary's death, and how much was because of John's distance?

'I'm afraid it's not that simple.'

John huffed a mirthless laugh, propping his elbows on his knees and bowing his head. 'When is it ever?'

The subtle buzz of Sherlock's phone interrupted before he could reply, and he frowned down at the screen, one eyebrow lifted in annoyance before he connected the call. 'Mycroft. Tell me you have something useful.'

John watched, trying to read the play of emotion over Sherlock's face. He could not hear more than the very edge of Mycroft's baritone, but he could make out the rhythm: not quick and to the point, but slower... almost gentle. Sherlock's expression collapsed into a frown, his lips pinching at their corners as he met John's gaze.

'No, Mycroft. You'll need to tell him yourself. He'll have questions I won't be able to answer.'

He offered up his phone to John, who took it with a puzzled shake of his head and pressed it to his ear. 'Hello?'

'Doctor Watson. I'm glad you arrived safe and sound.' Mycroft's voice sounded alarmingly present and focused. Normally when John spoke to him, he gave the impression of a man with a dozen better things to worry about than a retired army doctor. Now he came across as serious and genuine; the change alone put John on his guard. 

'Er, yeah. Thanks. What's this about?'

'I am afraid there is no easy way to say this. There was a fire at your residence last night: undoubtedly arson. Some of Sherlock's network witnessed the perpetrators but could do nothing to intervene. The blaze caught quickly. There's very little left.'

John gasped, his ribs aching around his straining lungs as he absorbed the news. 'God,' he whispered, cuffing a hand through his hair and surging to his feet. Restless energy bled through his frame, and he paced back and forth across the room, trying to find some order in the chaos of his thoughts.

'Is everyone all right? Was any one hurt? My neighbours?'

'Are all unharmed.'

He sighed in relief, his stomach a twisting knot as he thought of everything that had gone up in smoke. His whole life with Mary had been in that house, their wedding album, Rosie's baby book, passports... 'Jesus.'

'I will recover what I can,' Mycroft promised, 'but the people who set the fire were thorough. No room remained unscathed.'

'But why? Why would they do that? Is it to – to scare me? Smoke me out? What?'

'I'm afraid I cannot say. So far, we have seen no indication they know where you and Miss Watson have sought refuge. Please tell my brother we will keep a watchful eye on Baker Street. Goodbye, John.'

The dial tone buzzed in his ear as he struggled for breath, snatching in sips of air that barely sustained him. The weight of Sherlock's hand settled on his shoulder: a tether to the real world. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision, and strong palms guided him back into his seat. 

His thoughts skipped like a broken record, caught again and again on everything that had been destroyed. Every scrap of his life, every trace of his and Mary's shared existence: obliterated.

For all they that were safe here, it was a tenuous position. He wanted to flee, to grab Rosie and race to the ends of the earth if it meant avoiding this haunted, hunted reality, but the truth was unavoidable. 

His house was gone, and Baker Street could be next.

There was nowhere else to run.


	11. Chapter Ten

He should have seen it coming; in retrospect, the motive for vengeance was clear. He had set their hideout aflame, and they had retaliated, a tit-for tat retribution that had left John sinking even deeper in the mire of loss. How much had been left behind when Sherlock and Mycroft forced him to flee? Now his home lay in ashes, and Sherlock felt sick at the thought.

John's weathered face was a greyish white, the colour of his oatmeal jumper, and those hands shook as he pressed them to his temples, no doubt attempting to come to terms with this latest crisis. He looked like a man about to crack open, spilling viscera across the floor. 

Sherlock longed to reach out and bundle him into his arms, to restrain him in his embrace until he was sure John could hold himself together once more, but he didn't dare. Besides, what good would it do? Who would such an act truly comfort, John, or himself and his own volatile need to try and make things right once more?

No, John was a man who focussed on action and solutions. He needed the answers that Sherlock had yet to provide, and every moment of delay only made his failure feel that much more intense. There was nothing he could do to bring Mary back or replace the possessions and memories John and Rosie had lost in the fire. The only thing he was good for was unravelling the mystery that surrounded their lives. 

Even that, it seemed, remained beyond his reach.

'I should have expected this,' he murmured, guiding John into the armchair. Perhaps pacing would ease some of the nervous tension that thrummed through his body, but Sherlock wasn't certain that he would not simply collapse where he stood, his legs cut out from beneath him. 'I was so focussed on making sure you and Rosie were safe that I did not think to secure your home.'

'No.' John shook his head, wiping his palms down his denim-clad thighs. He looked ill, the skin around his lips tinged with nausea. 'Sherlock, no. You couldn't have foreseen this, and even if you had, you did all you could. You made sure we were safe and beyond their reach. The house is –' He hesitated, swallowing hard. 'It's just a house. They're just things.'

'Your things.' Sherlock hunkered down in front of John, softening his voice as he added, 'Mary's things.'

John knuckled at his right eye. 'They're just things,' he repeated.

Nearby, Rosie whimpered, and Sherlock turned to look at her, his hands reaching out in automatic comfort. She may be oblivious to the cause of the turmoil, but that did not mean she did not feel the change in the mood around her. Many children were sensitive to the emotions of their carer, and with Mary's loss, Rosie had no doubt become supremely attached to her father. 

He turned, picking her up and depositing her into John's lap. Immediately, John's arms cradled his daughter, holding her close and tight, offering the physical reassurance he himself would never accept. 

'It may have been retaliation for my actions. I set fire to their headquarters. Perhaps they felt justified.'

John's eyes flickered up to meet his, a glimmer of anger igniting in his gaze. For once, though, it did not seem to be aimed at Sherlock. 'Is that likely?' he asked, a mirthless smile stretching his mouth. 'Did they burn it to get back at you, or because I left London? ' He shrugged. 'It's one less place for me to hide.'

Sherlock hesitated, considering the logic of John's suggestion. It did, in hindsight, seem a more sensible reason for their actions. Yet he could not begrudge himself the sentiment that clouded his initial judgement. How could he, when John was an emotional minefield, ready to explode at any moment? 

He had adjusted his way of thinking accordingly, and then over-extrapolated: an understandable reaction given the current situation. At least John was looking at him without censure. In fact, a touch of fondness glinted in his sad eyes, a look that Sherlock had never thought to see again.

'You could be right,' he admitted, clearing his throat as he reached for his phone, his fingers flying over the keys as he sent out a few pertinent text messages. He knew who had been watching John's house: trusted individuals in his network, well-compensated for the earnings they may have lost dossing down elsewhere. Three in total, with strict instructions, for their own safety, not to intervene. 

'Mycroft said it was quick and thorough, which implies they did not search the place once they knew it was empty. I shall have my homeless network confirm it, but I think we can assume you were correct. The intruders the other night were not searching for something that Mary had left behind: they were looking for you.'

'Great,' John muttered, his expression growing more exhausted by the minute. 'I mean, I'm not surprised. I could tell from the way they acted – the way they moved. They weren't searching for anything; they knew exactly where to find us.'

'And now they don't. Mycroft's team are experienced at extraction. He would have made sure you were not followed, including decoy cars and false leads.' Sherlock lifted his chin, determined. 'While there may be some strategy to their decision to burn your house down, there is still an element of the desperate to it. It is reactionary, and a possible effort to lure you home to see the damage for yourself.'

'Fat chance of that.' John rubbed his hand up and down Rosie's back. 'I'm not stupid.'

'They don't know that.' Sherlock allowed himself a sliver of a smile before a new thought crossed his mind. 'Do you still have your old phone?'

John scowled, shaking his head. 'I left it behind: didn't trust it not to be bugged or have a tracker installed or something. Why?'

'Here, use mine.' He offered it up with a flick of his fingers. 'Call Lestrade and Molly; let them know you're safe, but not where you are.' He waited until John accepted the device from his grasp before standing back, giving him the privacy to contact those that cared for him and reassure them of his well-being. 

With any luck, it would also bring John some peace of mind: a way to be sure that his life in London had not vanished in a surge of flames. Rosie remained safe and happy in her father's arms. Sherlock allowed himself a moment to breathe a sigh of relief, forcing aside the harsh "could have been's" that circled in his thoughts: ones that ended up with more gravestones and grief, and him on his own to bear its brunt.

With quick steps, Sherlock strode back through to the kitchen where the files and photographs awaited him. He had printed out images of the pictures he had taken in the hideout, enlarging key details to give him as much information as possible. Translating the Greek documents was a slower endeavour, and one he now gave his full attention. This, at least, was something he could do; a way to be helpful when it felt as if life were rapidly spinning beyond his control.

Inch-by-inch, with frequent help from Google translate, he was able to pluck motes of information from the morass before him. At first, it was little more than an outline: hints and shadows of what the documents really contained, but the longer he worked, the more emerged from the mists of obscurity, finding their focus in his mind's eye.

He did not notice John return his phone, nor pay much attention to the comfortable, homely noises of John and Rosie's presence that came and went. He was too lost in his efforts, like a hound chasing the scent: determined not to give up no matter what obstacles rose in his path. His pen skittered over the page, his scrawl graceless in his haste, and by the time he was finished his hand cramped from the tightness of his grip.

Leaning back, he stretched out his knuckles, his gaze strafing across his own notes and the tantalising hints he had uncovered. It was only when someone touched his elbow – soft yet shocking all at once – that he emerged into the real world to find John standing at his side. 

Dimly, he noticed that some of the photos had changed position, as if John had examined them while Sherlock was busy. Hope fluttered ghostly wings in the pit of his stomach, and he raised one eyebrow in query as he jerked his head in their direction. 

'You were right; they've been at it a while.' John shrugged, his mouth wrenching to the side. 'Longer than Mary's been gone. Maybe it's nothing to do with her after all?'

Sherlock made a non-committal sound, still unwilling to give all of his theories voice. Yet he kept thinking back to that day at the aquarium, to the pertinent details that his mind had stored only to regurgitate later. More than anything, he could not help but recall how Mary had stepped into the bullet's path, as graceful as a prima-donna taking spotlight on the centre stage. 

'Perhaps,' he conceded at last, 'but these files suggest otherwise.' He skimmed a fingertip down the blank, white margin of the dense type, tapping it twice in quick consideration before he pulled the stool at his side outwards and gestured for John to sit.

'Where's Rosie?'

'Upstairs napping.' He waved towards the baby monitor perched on the kitchen surface. 'I think all this is tiring her out.' John huffed. 'A blessing, I suppose. At least one of us can get some good sleep.'

Sherlock drew a breath, tucking that subtle admission to one side. Caring for someone had never been his forte. He tended not to notice their discomfort until it was already too late, but once again, John was asking him for help. It settled some of the anxious fluttering that hummed through his veins and steeled his certainty. 

However unpleasant the revelations about Mary were in the coming days, uncovering them was the right thing to do. It may be tempting to try and shield John from the worst of what he found, yet in doing so he would only cause him harm. John's strength would sustain him, and if it didn't? Sherlock would be there to pick up the pieces. That, he could promise.

'What about the files?' John prompted, perching at Sherlock's side and leaning in to read over his shoulder. 'God, your handwriting is a mess.'

'Better than yours.' Sherlock sniffed, pretending offense and enjoying the warmth that curled in his gut when John gave a tiny, genuine smile in response. 'The people watching you speak Greek among themselves and use it in their documentation, suggesting either that it is their first language, or the one they all share with relative ease. The documents are not, as I initially assumed, about you and Rosie. Not beyond the basics. Even Mary is not discussed in great detail, as far as I can make out.'

'So what's it about?' John frowned, reading the Ionic script with nothing but bafflement.

'Some is financial resources; some is geographical information. AGRA is mentioned frequently.' He pointed to the familiar anglicised acronym, standing out like a sore thumb amidst its Greek contemporaries, 'but that's not the only one. There's something else referred to as...' He ran his finger under the relevant phrase, again written not in the Greek alphabet, but English.

'O Dio? I don't –' John shook his head. 'What does that mean?'

'The word "Dio" is Italian for God, though why they would use that and not the Greek "Theós" I cannot be sure. Perhaps it represents something that is not part of their organisation but outside it – or above it?' Sherlock shrugged. 'Absent, either way: an important gear in their machine that vanished at roughly the same time as AGRA was torn apart. That appears to be at least one facet of what they are looking for.'

'A person?'

'O Dio is spoken of as an individual, but it could be a partnership or conglomerate. One they are eager to find.'

'But what's that got to do with me?' John sagged in his seat, cuffing a hand through his hair and leaving it tousled. With a sigh, he answered his own question. 'It's not about me though, is it? You're right; it's about Mary. This Dio person vanished at the same time it all went south with AGRA. Maybe Mary knew who they were and they think she told me?'

'Perhaps.' Sherlock swivelled in his seat, close enough to John that his knees almost pressed against his thigh. 'I'm assuming that Mary never discussed her past with you in any more detail than what I already know?' He watched John shut his eyes, that expressive face sagging into deep lines of tension and misery.

'You knew more about it than me, Sherlock. I'm sure of that. You actually looked into it when I – I didn't want to see. I was happier with the fantasy than the woman I'd married.' His voice took on a harsh edge, scraping over those last words. John's hands clenched into fists where they rested against his legs, the knuckles jutting bone-white, pressing against his skin. 'I – I don't remember everything she said. There were apologies. Tears. I wanted them to be real, so I didn't look deeper.'

'I have nothing to prove that Mary was not genuine in her remorse,' Sherlock pointed out. 'And I did not dig into her past until it became relevant to your future. Yours and Rosie's.'

'Perhaps you should have.' John swallowed, jerking his head to the left in quick denial. 'Not – not that it's your fault. I'm just saying that maybe we'd have been better off facing the truth from the start.' He shivered, curling in on himself, and Sherlock could almost see the burden of John's self-blame crushing the life from him with every passing second.

'It's possible,' Sherlock conceded, wishing he could ease John's distress, but there was no honest answer he could offer that would do so. 'Understanding the scope of Mary's involvement with these people, if indeed AGRA share more than a spurious connection with them, will go a long way to helping us ascertain their purpose. For one reason or another, they believe you are somehow key to their efforts.'

'She told me nothing.' John shrugged, not lifting his eyes from their downcast angle. 'I mean it; even when I thought it was all out in the open, she never shared any details. It went against her – her training, I suppose. Looking back, I wonder if she was trying to protect me from something just like this.'

'I'm sure she was. Mary may have lied about many things, John, but she loved you. I doubt she would ever willingly put you or Rosie in danger.'

'Maybe, but that doesn’t change the facts.' John waved towards the window. 'They're still out there wanting God knows what. We can't even give it to them, because we have no idea what it is!'

'And if you did, would you surrender it? Would you hand it over to buy your way free of their attentions?' 

He would not apologise for the question, not when he could see the jagged edge of John's own uncertainty: his wish for this to be over warring with his honour. His need to keep Rosie safe at odds with his stubborn desire to work against the machinations of an undeniably suspect group.

'No.' John wet his lips, bowing his head as if he were making a ghastly confession. 'Whatever they're up to, it can't be good. God knows what would happen if they got what they wanted.' His gaze drifted to the baby monitor, his brow furrowed. Did he see his resolution as a betrayal of the family that Mary had left behind? 'You'd never give it up, would you?'

'This isn't about me.' Sherlock stilled where he sat, holding himself strong and resolute against the sudden sharpness of John's glare. 'What I would do is immaterial, but whatever you decide, our first course of action is clear: we must discover what it is that they seek. Armed with that information, we might have an idea how to proceed.' 

He drummed his fingers on the counter, staring at the sheaf of papers before him without really seeing the dense font. Instead, he was picking apart the threads of the tapestry, cutting free jewels of data from a web of irrelevance. 

'The link to AGRA is the fulcrum on which this rests.' He traced his fingertips over the acronym, considering the individuals that each letter represented. 'With the demise of Ajay, Mary was the last surviving member of the group and the final connection to this "O Dio" individual, with the potential exception of Vivian Norbury. 

'With Mary dead and Norbury ensconced in police custody, their options have grown limited.' Sherlock pursed his lips. 'Norbury has no family. She is, in fact, a remarkably insular person. Perfect for her chosen profession.'

'So, what? If Norbury knows who it is there's no way for our Greek team to get to her?'

'Exactly. They must step back a single degree of separation. They cannot get the information they want from Mary or Norbury, so they turn to those who knew them. In this case, there is only one suitable target.'

John straightened where he sat, nodding in understanding. 'Me.'

Sherlock clenched his hand into a quick fist before getting to his feet. He would not allow himself to be tentative, not in this. If John bit his head off for it, then so be it, but he could not let him stand there looking so defeated, caught in a cage of another's making. 

Settling his hand on John's shoulder, he ducked his head to catch John's gaze. Blue eyes, murky with emotion, shifted to the side, but a quick squeeze seemed to give John the strength he needed to turn back.

'It's only a theory, but with the data we have, it's the most likely scenario.'

'So how do we prove it?' John shifted, his eyes narrowed and his chin lifted, a long-absent spark of determination gleaming in his eyes.

A flicker of triumph shot through Sherlock's veins. That was the John he knew, one filled with determination and strength. That was what his friend needed: not pity or sympathy, but something to fight. And he knew just how to give it to him.

'There is someone who may be able to provide some answers. Someone they cannot reach, but we can.' He grinned, quick and feral. 'Vivian Norbury.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holiday season everyone. There'll be no update next week, but we'll be back on track come January 1st 2021!  
> B xxx
> 
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	12. Chapter Eleven

John paced in front of the dark fireplace, each anxious step wearing a groove in the plush carpet beneath his feet. Sherlock's plan made perfect sense. Vivian Norbury was the last living connection to this whole mess with Mary, but there was a big difference between the idea of speaking with her and the reality. 

This was the woman who had pulled the trigger – who had put a bullet in Mary and destroyed that part of John's life forever. It was because of her that he was a widower and a single father. Was she the reason strangers watched him? Was she why his house lay in ashes and he had to hide here like a wounded animal?

Anger surged, coating his throat in bitter bile. Every vein felt swollen with rage, every muscle tense with the need to wrap his fingers around the fragile stem of her neck and _press_. A suitable punishment. Why should she be left alive when Mary was dead? Why should she, of everyone who had suffered through the mess at Tbisi, be the one to cling to her worthless existence?

A squall from Rosie crackled over the baby monitor, bringing him up short. John choked down his emotion, each breath hissing between his lips as he reached for his self-control. He's almost forgotten about her, his own bloody daughter. She'd been napping peacefully, but now it seemed the brief respite had come to an end. 

She probably needed feeding and changing, not to mention affection and care. He refused to resent her for it, though the urge lingered there. Part of him whispered that he had enough to deal with – that a baby as well was asking too much – but he would not succumb to it. She was his responsibility. He had failed Mary in so many respects, but he would not fail their daughter in this, the most basic of parental duties.

Sherlock was on the phone, arguing with Mycroft from the sounds of it. Perhaps seeing Norbury wouldn't be as easy as they hoped. John was not even sure where they were holding her. Some high-security prison, he assumed, but maybe that was naive of him. Maybe the British Government had a special place to lock up traitors. How was he to know?

Jerking his head, he shook his thoughts aside, reaching for the glassy, passive ambivalence that was his shield against the world. He could not manage happiness, not yet, but he could fake it well enough for Rosie. The trick was not to dip beneath the surface of his emotions. Those depths were dark and unfathomable. Better to stay in the shallows, where simple, empty smiles would suffice. 

Climbing the stairs at a trot, he shouldered his way into the room he and Rosie shared, wrinkling his nose at the tell-tale odour of a soiled nappy. No wonder Rosie was screeching fit to bust. She'd flung all of her toys out of the cot in protest and now gave John a look of such betrayal that he had to bite back a laugh.

'Come here, love,' he murmured, surprised by the sudden rush of genuine affection that bubbled in his chest. 'Let's get you sorted.' 

It was quick, practical work. He had no patience for fathers who refused to deal with their baby's bodily functions. He'd seen worse anyway. At least this wasn't a blowout nappy, which would require a full bath to get Rosie clean again. 

Quickly, he wiped her down, smiling as her cries turned to whimpers, which soon became reluctant giggles. She chewed on her fist and waved her other hand about before trying to roll over on the changing mat, clearly bored by his ministrations.

'Oh no you don't.' He flipped her over, ignoring her protests as he got her redressed, manhandling her into her clothes as she struggled to be free of them. By the time they were done, they were both flustered, and John gave a weary groan as he picked her up and carried her downstairs, intent on feeding her. 

Rosie arched her back as he attempted to put her in the high chair, wriggling and fussing. John tried unsuccessfully to shush her so as not to interrupt Sherlock's phone-call. Yet when he turned to look it was to find Sherlock watching them, his mobile against his ear and a lopsided smile on his face.

John huffed, opening up a jar of chicken baby food and popping it in the microwave. It was already cooked and could be eaten cold, but getting Rosie used to different temperatures was all part of the process. He warmed the gooey, meaty glup, hoping to get it to Rosie before she had a complete meltdown. 

'No, Mycroft, that –' Sherlock trailed off with a sigh, and John glanced over. He had his mobile cradled between his ear and his shoulder, but it was what he was doing with his hands that held Rosie's attention. 

Two shiny red apples curved through the air as Sherlock juggled them. She watched him with huge eyes, her mouth parted in a gummy smile. Her distraction wouldn't last long, but John grinned his quick thanks in Sherlock's direction as he made the most of it. He checked the temperature of her food and grabbed a bib for her before setting about the messy ordeal of getting her fed.

'I'm not suggesting an in-person visit. A video call will serve our purpose far better. John will not agree to being left behind, and I do not think any high-security facility is a suitable location for Rosie.' 

John blinked, a spoonful of food hovering in front of Rosie's mouth as he half-listened to Sherlock's conversation. He hadn't thought about the ins and outs of seeing Norbury. He'd assumed that he and Sherlock would march in as they had done in the past. Rosie's presence hadn't even crossed his mind, and a hot welt of shame seared across his heart at his own thoughtlessness.

'I doubt she would be happy with one of your minions watching her either, regardless of their qualifications.' The tone of Sherlock's voice deepened, becoming resolute. 'I expect you to have it arranged within the hour, Mycroft. You have nothing better to do, and I know Ms Norbury doesn't have other plans.'

Mycroft said something clipped, but judging from Sherlock's smile, it was a reluctant agreement to his request. Sherlock caught the two apples in one hand and disconnected the call with the other, setting down his burdens on the kitchen counter. He stared at the fruit, lost in thought, and John tilted his head, wiping mush from Rosie's chin.

'Everything all right?'

'Yes. Yes, of course. I'm attempting to decide how best to approach Norbury. She is an intelligent woman, one as aware of my faults as I am of hers. She has no reason to offer us any of the answers that we seek, so we must convince her that it would be worth her while.'

'Won't her cooperation be taken into account when it comes to sentencing?'

'Not unless your current situation is somehow tied to her selling national secrets. If it _is_ , then she is even less likely to assist. To do so may further incriminate her.' Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips, narrowing his eyes as he considered the problem. 'We'll need to play it by ear.' He hesitated, those starlight eyes flicking in John's direction, pinched with apology. 'Will you be all right facing her?'

'Yeah, I think so.' John scraped the remains of food from Rosie's bowl and offered it to her, trying not to let his hands shake as he thought back to that awful night.

He remembered very little of Norbury: an unassuming older woman with her hair in a bun. Glasses perhaps. Neither tall nor short, and unremarkable except for the gun in her hand. 

As the killer, she should have been the epicentre of that scene, but to John she had been a bystander. Even Mary, lying on the floor and breathing her last, had only been one facet that held his attention. The rest – all his pain and hate and misery, had been on Sherlock – vicious and vitriolic behind the glassiness of shock.

He took a deep breath, setting Rosie's spoon down and tilting his head. 'Yeah. I'll – I'll be fine.' He looked down at his old, comfortable clothes, pursing his lips. 'I'll change.'

'As will I.' Sherlock gestured to the loose pyjamas that still clad his frame. 'Why don't I watch Rosie for a moment? I believe Mycroft provided extra clothing for you.'

'Yeah. Thanks.' John nodded, clenching his fists as he about-faced and marched from the room. Back when he'd moved in with Sherlock, he would not have thought twice about confronting a suspect or informant in his jumper and jeans. Even now, he didn’t often consider what he wore, but he had come to see outfits as either armour or a disguise: sometimes both. 

He had dressed to suit Mary's tastes (more shirts, less jumpers) when she'd been alive, and now he felt the need to meet Norbury as that man. Mary's widower. A solid, undeniable entity: a consequence of her actions. Perhaps it would have no impact, but it would make him feel better – more in control.

It didn't take him long to change and neaten his hair. Nothing could erase the haggard circles under his eyes, but by the time he stopped to consider his reflection, he decided he at least looked capable and focused in a way he had not felt in weeks. Perhaps it was an elaborate mask, but he would still wear it. 

If nothing else, the thought of allowing Norbury so much as a glimpse of his turmoil sent shudders down his spine. There were few he trusted to see him in such a state, even among his friends. In fact, only Sherlock had borne witness to the splintered remains of John's emotional wreckage. 

A week ago, he had resented the very notion of Sherlock in his life. Now, John found himself glad that it had been Sherlock who pulled him close, both emotionally and, later, physically. His presence alone was a comfort that was, John realised in retrospect, desperately welcome.

With a glance at his watch, John hurried back downstairs, smiling to see Sherlock standing in front of the French doors with Rosie in his arms, pointing out the flitting songbirds beyond the window. She seemed as fascinated with him as she did the shapes outside, and her pout when John retrieved her could have rivalled Sherlock's in the deepest pits of his sulks. 

'Do you intend to have Rosie with us when we speak to Norbury?'

'No.' John looked down at his daughter, rocking back and forth in the soothing way that seemed to have written itself into his bones the day she was born. 'Not in front of the screen, anyway. I'll try and get her settled out of sight. It's the best compromise I can manage.'

Sherlock inclined his head. 'If you would rather sit this one out –'

'No. Not bloody likely.' John straightened his shoulders, meeting Sherlock's gaze. 'I want to hear what she's got to say. She's our only lead in all of this, at least until you get that file back from the AGRA USB stick. If she can somehow explain all – all of this –' He waved a hand around meaningfully.'–then I want to be there to hear it.'

'Very well. I'll be back down shortly.' 

John busied himself with settling Rosie in her bouncy chair, placing it on the floor and setting up various toys. She was almost too big for it, but since she was still hit-and-miss with sitting up unaided, he was happy to let her rock herself in the springy seat. Safely strapped in, she wouldn't escape in a hurry, and it was stable enough not to fall over. 

After a moment's thought, he tucked her blanket over her legs for extra warmth and retrieved her cuddly toy: an inadvisably rainbow coloured elephant. It was not beyond the realms of possibility that she'd decide to nap, but John made sure there were plenty of toys nearby to give her, just in case.

'Well, Rosie-Rose, ' he murmured, hunkering down next to her with a wince. 'You've been a very good girl so far. I'll be right here, but me and Sherlock need to talk to a lady.' He bit his lip, knowing she was too young to understand, but feeling like he owed her some kind of explanation for why her whole life had been turned upside down. 

'A bad lady. Sherlock thinks she might know something about why people have been watching us. The sooner we find out more, the sooner we can go...' He paused, his throat pulsing around the word "home". Of course, the building Rosie had known as home all her short life was gone. 'Well, we'll see.' He clenched his hands into fists atop his knees. He couldn't face all that now, the sheer mess of insurance claims and God knew what else.

One thing at a time, he told himself, managing a weak smile as Rosie gave a soft whimper that sounded very much like concern. The house would have to wait. He couldn't go back to London anyway, not until he knew it was safe. Besides, he realised, his heart aching, there was nothing to say they had to stay in the city: not any more. He could change jobs easily enough – a GP was rarely short of opportunities – and Rosie was not yet tied down to schools. Maybe that would be better; a way to draw a line between the past and the future he had to build for Rosie's sake.

'John?'

He blinked, looking up to see Sherlock in the doorway. He lingered on the threshold as if uncertain of his welcome. He had been so lost in his musings that John had not even heard him approach. Now he struggled to muster a smile: a comforting reassurance that was nothing but a lie. 'I'm fine.' Sherlock's expression of disbelief was almost funny, and John sighed, double-checking Rosie was comfortable before scrambling to his feet. 'Are you ready?'

'Yes. Let's get this over with. Norbury probably suspects a ploy on Mycroft's part to encourage her to divulge the full extent of her treason, using us as intermediaries. Our true line of questioning may throw her off balance. It will be a brief window of opportunity, but one I intend to exploit.'

'You think she might know who this "O Dio" is?'

'That is the hope.'

Sherlock tugged at the cuffs of his jacket before walking over to the laptop where it sat on the breakfast bar. John stood behind his shoulder, too tense to take a seat at his side. He shifted his weight as Sherlock went through the tiresome necessities of establishing a connection and entering the authorisations that Mycroft had provided in a hurried email. 

By the time the video call connected, an uncomfortable sweat had broken out across John's back, prickling under his shirt as he clenched his jaw and stared at the woman before them.

Cold and insipid, Norbury watched the world through hooded eyes. Her hair hung loose, unstyled, and her face sagged with age and exhaustion. John expected to hate the sight of her, yet it was pity that twisted through his chest. She looked like someone's grandmother; hardly villain material. It was difficult to believe that this was the woman who had pulled the trigger and caused Mary's death. She didn't look capable, at least until she smiled: a cynical curve of thin lips that made John narrow his eyes in distrust.

'Mr Holmes.' She raised a grey eyebrow but said nothing further. If she were surprised to see either of them, it didn't show.

'Ms Norbury. Who or what is “O Dio”?'

'Straight to the point.' She sneered. 'No dramatics? How disappointing. I thought it ended rather well, last time.' Her eyes flickered to John, who stiffened, but he held his silence. He wouldn't rise to such obvious bait, and neither would Sherlock. 'Where did you come across that name?'

Sherlock brushed a fingertip along the edge of the table, out of sight of the camera. It was a subtle gesture, one that John knew well. He was considering the pros and cons of handing Norbury some information, skimming the surface of his Mind Palace as he weighed his options. 

This time, it seemed the balance tipped in her favour. 'From a Greek unit who has been conducting a surveillance operation in London. They appear to be looking for someone or something connected to Mary Watson. The obvious conclusion is that you might know something about these... individuals.'

Norbury's pale face, already washed out by the harsh fluorescent lights, grew more pinched, her wrinkles deepening as her brow furrowed. Yet there was no flicker of surprise on her features. To John, she almost looked as if she had expected the news. Sherlock had been right; she knew something about what was going on. The question was, how could they get her to give up the details?

She straightened in her chair, lifting her chin and wiping her face clean of everything but bored disinterest: a professional expression that set John's teeth on edge. 'I am afraid that has nothing to do with me.'

'I believe you.' 

John sucked in a breath at Sherlock's easy statement, his head whipping around to stare at him in disbelief. Surely he could see that she was lying?

'I believe that, if anything, you were no more than an axillary associate to these people. You were not their main point of contact nor their primary focus. There was someone else wasn’t there: a middle-man? After all, obtaining national secrets in your position was easy, but getting in touch with a buyer without putting yourself at risk? That would be vastly more challenging. You stood to lose far too much in such an endeavour.' 

Norbury’s lips peeled back from her teeth, her eyes twitching away, but before she could deny it, Sherlock interrupted, speaking over her protest with casual arrogance. 

'It’s obvious. Don’t deny it. This “O Dio” was a point of contact for the buyers. Perhaps they never knew their name or saw their face, but they were a link in the chain between yourself and the people to whom you provided information.' He leant forward, cocking his head like a bird of prey sizing up a tasty meal. 'Who was it, Ms Norbury?'

'I have nothing to say to you.'

'I see.' Sherlock curved a hand over his mouth, and John watched the play of light over that familiar profile. The harsh glow of the laptop screen washed out his pale skin to something almost other-worldly, adding a touch of frost to those dark curls even as Sherlock's eyes gleamed with the lightning race of his thoughts. 

'What would happen if the group became aware of your identity and your current situation? So far, an intermediary has protected you from their knowledge, and they've been distracted by their search. What would they do if they realised that you – the purveyor of the information they had purchased in the past – was being held in custody? Units such as theirs do, after all, rely on secrecy. What would they do to avoid becoming the target of scrutiny, I wonder?’ Sherlock paused. ‘You may think yourself safe in a maximum-security facility, Ms Norbury, but you would be surprised.'

'They would not dare!'

'Wouldn't they?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, letting his words sink in as John looked on, amazed despite himself. 

Norbury's mask was slipping, even he could see that. The sharp lines of confident indifference drained from her features, but what lay beneath was not the fear he expected. Instead, she seemed determined.

'Any action they may take would be mere child's play in comparison to what will happen to me should I tell you anything further. Goodbye, Mister Holmes. I have nothing left to say to you.'

With a quick nod, she gestured to a guard, and John swore as the video link closed, leaving him and Sherlock staring at the blank screen. 'We're right back where we started,' he rasped, bowing his head and tunnelling his hands into his hair.

'Not so. In fact, Ms Norbury’s responses have rather confirmed some of my suspicions.' Sherlock sighed, his expression grim and shadowed. 'I think I know the identity of “O Dio”. The so-called middle-man.'

'Who?

Those silver eyes met his own, bright with reluctant certainty. 'It was Mary.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very happy new year to my readers! May you have health, wealth and happiness!  
> B xxx
> 
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	13. Chapter Twelve

Sherlock held his breath, watching the flicker of John's features as his words sank in. He restrained himself from reaching out even when John swayed where he stood, scrubbing his palms over his face in disbelief. His shoulders slumped, his back bowing as if he could hunch away from Sherlock's statement and hide from the world. 

He expected shouted denials and raging accusations. He imagined John's anger finding its flash point, but the balance tipped the other way. John curled in on himself rather than lashing out, his hands falling back to his sides to reveal a grey, haggard man. Those blue eyes were dark and downcast, as if this was the thing that might finally tear him apart.

'I wish I could say I didn't believe it,' he rasped, his lips wrenching into a thin, flat line as he shook his head. 'But it's easy enough, isn't it? Everything else she was? Everything she pretended to be? That's all it was, isn't it? A lie? Was the woman I married even real?'

Sherlock let out an unsteady breath, tugging at his right cuff in nervous uncertainty before taking a single step forward and insinuating himself in John's personal space. If John decided to throw a punch now, Sherlock would bear the bruises for weeks, but he could not hold himself at arm's length as John shattered to pieces before his eyes. There were not tears: nothing so cathartic. Instead, John trembled from head to toe, subtle shivers that spoke of the depths of his emotional distress.

'I do not yet have proof,' Sherlock pointed out, feeling it imperative to make that known. Perhaps it would have been better if he had clung to his earlier determination to wait for solid evidence, but this was something he could not hide from John. Not for a moment longer, because if he was right, then John and Rosie may be in more danger than either of them had imagined. 'I have been wrong before.'

'Not often,' John pointed out. 'Besides, you must have seen something in Norbury to make you decide it was Mary. Did she give something away? Something I missed?'

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, thinking over the brief video call. It had given him a wealth of information into Norbury's physical and mental state, but he could not quite put his finger on the moment that he had realised the most likely identity of the go-between. Instead, it felt like the culmination of a hundred small observations falling into place. There were still pieces missing; he did not yet have the whole picture, but every single facet pointed to "O Dio" being Mary Morstan.

'Norbury feels safe where she is: secure within the prison service. She's probably right to believe herself so. A maximum-security place like that is nigh on impenetrable to any threat. The biggest danger she faces is one arranged by her own government, and Mycroft and his ilk will not be able to handle this with their usual clandestine flair. Not without raising too many questions. She's in the public eye, and it gives her an element of protection. That makes her confident. Perhaps foolishly so.' 

He turned around, moving towards the kettle with every intention of making them both a cup of tea. It was an automatic method of offering comfort that Mrs Hudson frequently relied upon, and her habit had rubbed off on Sherlock years ago. 

'She believes that whoever may take action against her if she were free is more of a cause for concern than anything that myself, Mycroft or the justice system may throw at her.' Shifting away to hear his thoughts over the seethe of the boiling kettle, Sherlock pointed his finger to the palm of his own hand, laying it out point-by-point. 

'O Dio vanished at the same time as AGRA. The files we have available to us indicate that Mary may have been involved beyond simply being a member of the team. If, as I suspect, she was O Dio, then she would be the first point of contact for Norbury's buyers. Now that she's gone...' 

He trailed off, shaking his head. 'Norbury is happy in jail because she is safe from them. Perhaps that's the real reason she shot Mary; to both break the chain that tied her to the buyers and ensure she would be safely incarcerated should they choose to come after her.'

John sagged onto the nearby chair, shaking his head in disbelief. 'If that's the case, if Mary was who they were looking for, then why haven't they stopped? She's dead. She's gone. Why are they even bothering with me and Rosie?'

Sherlock stirred milk into John's tea. 'That is what's causing me some confusion. If they were looking for something physical, then I would expect to see more efforts to recover it. They would not burn your house to cinders, and they would be far more likely to make incursions into your digital life: hacking and so forth. They have not done so; I already checked.' 

He passed John his mug, curling John's fingers around the handle and making sure it was secure in his grip before turning to his own drink. 'So why are they here? What are they hoping to achieve? It's the one aspect I have yet to grasp, and one that I suspect is essential to bringing this to an end.'

John sipped his tea, staring at nothing. Sherlock wondered if he had heard anything he said, or if he was too lost in his thoughts to connect with the world. 

On the one hand, Mary's role beyond AGRA should not be surprising. She had proven herself a woman of extraordinary means and intelligence. However, Sherlock had not built a marriage based on her promises. He did not have to look back over the past eighteen months and question every aspect of his relationship with her. John, on the other hand, appeared half-devastated by the revelation and half-resigned to its inevitability, as if he had hoped for better but not truly expected it.

'Did she tell the truth about anything?' he whispered, casting Sherlock a furrowed, hopeless look. 'Was it all just a game to her, something to fill her hours now that AGRA had fallen apart? God, did she – did she even stop when she came back to London to start a normal life, or was she still playing both sides, even then?'

'I can't say.' Sherlock shrugged in apology. 'I would like to think she was earnest in her wish for normality. What little evidence we have suggests that this group have been watching you and Rosie since before Mary's death. Perhaps they sought her out when she left that life behind. Maybe they have been observing her and, by extension, you, for even longer than we realise.' 

John set his mug aside and dragged himself to his feet. 'I can't – I can't do this right now.' He bit his lip and shook his head, moving like a man in his eighties rather than his forties, creaking and hobbled by his sentiment. 'I need some time.'

'Of course. I understand.' Sherlock watched him go, his heart aching as John limped over to Rosie, picking her up with soft murmurs of comfort and carrying her elsewhere. He understood John's need for distance, and he could not blame him for it. Here, in the strange territory of the safe-house, there was little familiar to offer him comfort. Sherlock's revelations may, in time, ease John's confusion, but that made them no less uncomfortable to hear. 

Whatever else she had been – secret agent, spy, traitor or assassin – Mary had been John's wife. That was not something either of them could afford to ignore. As much as Sherlock wished he could treat her as any other potential culprit within a case, he could not shake the notion that whatever he discovered had great potential to bring John further physical and emotional distress. 

If it were a stranger, he would not bat an eye. It was his job to uncover the truth, not shield others from the pain that such revelations may cause. Now, it was a different matter. While he could not compromise his approach to solving this in the name of sparing John, he would not be so blasé and arrogant in his deductions, either. John was right, they had consequences, and for once, Sherlock would be mindful of them.

The chime of his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he pulled it out to skim through the new email, a _frisson_ of intrigue racing through him. His consultant hacker had finally broken open the single, well-hidden file on the USB stick. Far from being the self-destructive subroutine that Sherlock had suspected, it was instead a heavily encrypted sub-folder, now brought into the light thanks to the hard work of his contact. 

Reaching for his laptop, he opened up the email with the log-in details to a private server. He could download the uncovered files and then blitz it in his wake, leaving no easy trail to be followed. His hacker would also be taking every available precaution, from burner emails to who knew what else. 

It was one field of expertise Sherlock was happy to leave to others. His knowledge was basic: adequate enough to get him through most so-called "security", but this had been far beyond his ability. Mary, or someone she knew, had been more than capable of encrypting it, so what had she been hiding?

Sherlock frowned as he stared at the pair of excel documents, opening each as trepidation coiled low in his gut. The first held hundreds of numerical strings, with various digits scribed in different colours. There appeared to be no rhyme nor reason to it. The document looked like row-upon-row and column-after-column filled with nothing but rubbish. Still, he knew Mary better than that. There would be method to her madness.

He hoped that the second file might hold the answer, but it was almost entirely blank.

_51.378447, 0.018385_

Narrowing his eyes, he curved his hand over his mouth as he considered his discovery. Rather than offering answers, the files seeded more questions. It was, he suspected, only half the picture. 

Mary was a clever woman; she knew that putting all her eggs in one basket was too great a risk. This, the AGRA USB stick, had been the story she'd been content to tell: the sacrificial secret, should she ever need it. If Sherlock had managed to decode these files in the past, she could have written them off as irrelevant: nothing but artefacts. 

Now, he felt as if he had opened the locked door of digital encryption only to find another behind it, blocking him from the truth. One for which he had no key.

At least, not yet.

Mary's skill had become evident early in their acquaintance. Her abrupt recognition of the skip code when John was missing had given away her propensity and familiarity with encryption. Here, she fell back on it once more, but what manner of cipher had she put to use? More importantly, what was concealed within it?

Sherlock drew a deep breath, his gaze darting back and forth over the screen as he considered his options. Mary's resourcefulness had never been in doubt. She had proved that when she fled London, her journeys back and forth across the globe designed to confound any would-be followers. 

Yet her downfall had been failing to consider the obvious. She had been so caught up in her tried-and-true practices of escape that she had not taken into account her changed circumstances. More to the point, she had forgotten Sherlock's lack of moral qualms when it came to utilising covert tracking facilities in people's phones.

That had been the stumbling block: the unravelling of her plan. Had she taken that into account when she created this code? Had she written it with Sherlock in mind, or was this a relic from her time before, when she had been attempting to confound others of less intelligence and tenacity?

Reaching for pen and paper, he began to jot down ideas, focusing his efforts on the first file. It was tempting to discard basic codes as being beneath Mary's expertise, but Sherlock knew from hard-earned experience that sometimes the easiest were the most effective for just that reason. It was painstaking work, plucking at the knotted mass of digits, and attempting to calculate corresponding letters or combinations. 

Around him, the lingering hours of daylight drifted away. Hunger gnawed at his belly, but he ignored it with the ease of long-practice, It wasn't until shuffling footsteps announced John's presence that he tore his gritty eyes from the screen, lifting his head to take in the man he considered his best friend.

Tears had been shed: the red rims of John's eyes made their accusations, and his skin seemed to sag from the bones of his face, slack with misery. It had been a long time since Sherlock had seen John look so defeated. The last had been at Sherlock’s own graveside, the cane clenched tight in his hand and his body tense with rejection of his new reality. 

Now he held a similar expression, one where regret carved its story into every line of his body. He looked beaten; yet hints of strength remained as he lifted his chin and met Sherlock's gaze. 'Rosie's asleep. We need to eat.'

Sherlock inclined his head. 'What would you like?'

John shrugged, his eyes glazed as if the effort of making such a decision were too much for him. Perhaps it was. He had been inundated with stress these past few weeks, buffeted by events and buried under an avalanche of revelations. 

What would he have done if he were alone? Would he have kept it together for Rosie's sake, or would he have succumbed despite his daughter's presence? As it was, he looked like an automaton, a man distancing himself from a painful world and going through the motions, rather than actually living.

'Sit,' Sherlock urged, stepping forward to guide John onto one of the seats at the kitchen island. 'I'll put something together.' 

Once, John would have laughed and teased at the offer of Sherlock cooking, but it seemed that was beyond him. He stared into the middle distance, no doubt not seeing anything of what lay before him. 

Sherlock had to content himself with quick, worried glances as he contemplated the contents of the fridge. Mercifully, there were pre-cooked meals as well as ingredients, and he pulled free what looked like a hearty beef stew, pouring it from the Tupperware into a sauce-pan and flicking on the stove.

Before long, the scent of herbs and red wine curled in the air, and he stirred the thickening gravy before warming some crusty bread in the oven. People put a great deal of emotional weight on food, and though he couldn't see it himself, he knew that John would find comfort in a hot, nourishing meal. It was a simple method of care, and one Sherlock suspected John had not used for himself in some time. All his devotion had been spent on Rosie, leaving nothing to spare.

Well, that was about to change. Solving the situation with Mary's past and the ominous watchers of John's day-to-day life would help John's peace of mind, but there was more to it than that. John could not take care of himself in his current emotional state, and so Sherlock was determined to do it for him. How many times had John stood there, urging him to take care of the needs of his transport when his mind tried to prioritise more cerebral pursuits? Now, when John's aching heart claimed all of his attention, Sherlock knew he had to return the favour.

There were few people in the world he would consider worthy of such attention, but John was one of them.

He blinked awake as Sherlock set the steaming plate down in front of him, focusing on the meal with a weary gaze. 'Thanks.'

'Eat,' Sherlock urged. 'Would you have wine, beer or something else?'

'Wine, if you're having it.' John straightened his shoulders, seeming to come back to himself as Sherlock poured a glass of chianti. 'I've been trying not to but...'

Sherlock nodded, his understanding absolute. John had always been very aware of the propensity for alcohol addiction that ran in his family. As such, bar one or two occasions that Sherlock knew of, he did not drink alone for fear there would be nothing to stop him. Here, at least, he trusted Sherlock to help him stick to his limits.

'It's been a long day.' Sherlock took a bite of the stew, easing the sullen ache of hunger that had taken up residence in his belly.

'A long week,' John corrected him, shaking his head. 'More than that, even. ' He turned his fork over in his hand, the metal tines flashing under the bright lights. 'I –' He swallowed, reaching for his wineglass and taking a healthy gulp before he continued, 'I wanted to thank you. I had no right to expect anything of you. Not after...'

'John –'

'Let me finish.' John's voice was an open wound, pained and raw, but he surged on. 'I'm still angry, sometimes. It's hard not to be, but I'm also grateful. Mary was never your problem, Sherlock. Or your responsibility. I know you vowed to keep us safe, but that was before AGRA. Before everything. It was a promise to protect us from the consequences of your life, not Mary's past.'

Sherlock tilted his head, knowing it was not so clear-cut as all that. In the end, his work and Mary's history had become entwined by necessity. She had, in many ways, been both client and culprit. Yet before he could offer any kind of rebuttal, John continued.

'I shouldn't have said what I said at the aquarium. Or after. It wasn't your fault.'

'Yet nor was I blameless. You were not wrong. My arrogance hardly helped matters. Perhaps if I had approached it differently...' Sherlock grimaced. He had spent too long going over that night in his mind, pulling at the various strands of events in a desperate attempt to weave an alternative outcome, but to no avail. All his deductions and extrapolations ended in the same place: with Norbury pulling the trigger. 'I'm sorry, John.'

'I know, Sherlock.' John's lips ticked up at one corner, his crooked smile strained but real all the same. And in it, at last, there was something that looked like the first hint of true forgiveness. 

'I know.'


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_'You've forgiven him.' Mary’s solemn blue eyes burned in her face. Lines bracketed her cyanotic lips and rusty red painted its accusation across her shirt. 'That didn't take you long.'_

_'Don't.' John's voice sounded thin and distant to his own ears, as if he were speaking from the other end of a tunnel. 'Don't do this.'_

_'Do what?' Mary shrugged, raising one eyebrow. 'Speak the truth?'_

_'You're the reason we're here. Together. Something you did. People are watching us...'_

_'Oh, so it's my fault?'_

_'No.' John shook his head, his body moving too slow, lost in the morass of the dream. The house around them was an odd mix of Baker Street and the home he and Mary had shared. Soot blackened the doorways. A yellow smiley face leered from the wallpaper with bullet-holes for eyes. Singed rugs lay underfoot and grinning skulls were stacked like white logs in the fireplace._

_Dread sat heavy in John's stomach, but every time he tried to turn away, Mary was there, watching him. There was no escaping her, and he sucked in a deep breath of the smoky air as she reached out, her cold hand closing like a vice around his wrist. The urge to thrash and tear himself free hummed in his muscles, but he couldn't move an inch. He could only stand there, staring at the woman he'd once loved._

_'I'm dead, John,' she murmured, her words flecking her lips with blank ink as she spoke. 'And you're glad of it.'_

_'No!'_

_'Liar.'_

_The crack of the beams above their heads punctuated her words, the charred wood giving way to a cascade of rubble. It painted everything in the same pallid shade of grey, making him as ghostly as Mary. It stung his eyes and coated his throat, choking him as he tore himself free from Mary's clutches._

His body jerked as if he had been electrocuted, ripping him from the snare of the dream and leaving him panting and wide-eyed. He stared at his unfamiliar surroundings with his teeth bared, interrogating the shadows as the pinch of tears bit at his eyes. A few moments later, memory stirred, and John sagged back against his pillows as he realised where he was.

The safe-house.

Scrubbing a shaking hand down his face, he blinked up at the ceiling, his mind reeling even as the last tattered pieces of the nightmare slipped away. Mary and a burnt house. Her voice a litany of accusation. Not the real Mary at all; just a manifestation of his guilt, not that the knowledge made him feel much better. Off-kilter and out of sorts, he lay there listening to Rosie's steady breathing and watching the hazy moonlight spill through the curtains.

Sleep would not return, and John shook his head, screwing up his gritty eyes only to open them again and heave himself from the bed. He padded over the carpet, turning on the baby monitor and sneaking from the room. If Rosie needed him, he would answer her call, but a few moments of true solitude felt like a blessed idea: a window of time to help him shore up his foundations and shake off the clinging vestiges of his dream.

The stairs did not protest under his weight, and John breathed a sigh of relief as he flicked on the downstairs lights. He had half-expected to find Sherlock awake and going through the evidence, untangling the knot of information to reveal a way forward, but it seemed he had given up and gone to bed. The dinner plates had been washed and the wineglasses set to dry. John managed a smile as they gleamed at him from the draining board. The meal had been a much-needed balm to both his hunger and his temper, but not as much as Sherlock's obvious thoughtfulness and care.

Over the course of their friendship, John could count on one hand the times Sherlock had prepared food and put it in front of him. Normally, Sherlock considered himself above the needs of the physical and expected the rest of the world to follow his example. That he had made an exception the previous evening, and done so without fanfare, made something warm and grateful curl in the pit of John's stomach.

Cuffing at his eyes, he checked the doors were shut before daring to turn on the kettle, hoping the sound wouldn't travel through the house as he set about making himself some coffee. Beyond the windows, dawn's silver seam stitched the horizon. There was no point in trying to go back to bed. Besides, for the first time in days, he felt as if he had found some direction. He and Sherlock had Mary's mystery files to work with, as well as the few sparse breadcrumbs Norbury had thrown their way.

The fragrant steam of his drink rose from the rim of the mug, caressing his cheek as he took a cautious sip. The strong, bitter flavour swept aside the last cobwebs, making him feel something like human as he turned towards where Sherlock had left various files strewn around.

From the look of it, he had begun work on some of Mary's code, though his efforts appeared to have born little in the way of fruit. Such things had never been John's strength: being a soldier and a surgeon relied on clear communication. 

Mary, on the other hand, thrived on it: the secrets and puzzles, twisting things up to look like nonsense only for a seed of sense to be secluded at their core. Worse, she was well-trained and experienced. If anyone could break her code apart, it would be Sherlock, but John did not envy him the task.

Turning through pages of Sherlock's scrawl, John came to another print out. A single pair of digits with long decimal place values, stamped stark and bare on a sheet of A4.

**51.378447, 0.018385**

Setting his cup down, John perched on the nearest stool, dragging the paper closer to him. The unforgiving lights of the kitchen threw the black ink into stark relief, and he chewed his lip as he considered the possibilities.

Sherlock hadn't touched them yet. No notes crowded the page; nothing marked it at all. Perhaps he had dismissed it in comparison to the other code. After all, it was clear that the long list shielded a greater wealth of information than this pair of numbers, but the more John stared at them, the more his heart began to race. 

He knew Mary; knew how she worked. She used codes to keep her secrets from prying eyes, not to communicate with others. Whatever she’d hidden away would have some kind of key only she knew: something that she never intended to share. This - it was a reminder. Something to point the way, just in case she ever needed help unlocking her own cipher.

The two digits weren't code at all, they were coordinates!

Abandoning his coffee, he raced upstairs, paying no mind to the heaviness of his footsteps as he burst into Sherlock's room. The noise jolted Sherlock to wakefulness. One hand crossed defensively in front of his face while the other flung out sideways, searching for a weapon. A heartbeat later, he found his focus, and his gaze turned narrow and suspicious.

'John, what is it? Is something wrong?'

'No. No, sorry. Everything's fine. It's just, I know what these are.' He flailed the piece of paper in his hand, reaching down to flick on the bedside lamp and perching on the edge of Sherlock's bed, too caught up in his discovery to consider keeping his distance. 'They're coordinates. Decimal degrees, I'm sure of it.'

Sherlock brushed his knuckles over his right eye before reaching for John's wrist, applying gentle pressure so that he tilted the page towards the light. 'John, you're a genius.'

'Well, I wouldn't go that far. The army used them a lot on exercise. This many decimal places though, it's precise.' John clawed a hand through his hair. 'Down to about a square foot. Maybe a bit more.'

'The question is,' Sherlock said as he reached for his phone, 'what is it Mary wanted to remember, and is it still there?' He copied out the coordinates, his brow pinched tight as Google Maps spat out its verdict. John leaned in, peering over his shoulder.

'St Mary The Virgin Church in Hayes,' John murmured. 'It's not where we were married or anything like that. Her ashes aren't there.'

'No, but look, the coordinates are not in the church itself, but in the graveyard. I suspect they're pointing to a specific memorial or tomb.' Sherlock tilted his head in thought, exposing the long column of his neck. The old, cotton top he wore to bed hung low around his collarbones, and John swallowed at the sight, ignoring the flash of desire that bolted down his spine. The dream with Mary rose in his mind again, her voice damning.

_'You've forgiven him. I'm dead and you're glad of it.'_

'Can we see where it points? Use Google Earth or whatever?' he rasped, clearing his throat and shifting where he sat, wondering if it had been a mistake to barge into Sherlock's room. He hadn't even thought twice about it. Now his surroundings seemed surprisingly intimate, not helped by Sherlock's sleep rumpled body within arm's reach.

'No, the resolution is too poor, and street view doesn't go into such enclosed spaces. We would need eyes on the ground.' Sherlock dropped his phone on the mattress beside him and leaned back against the headboard. 'I shall have Mycroft send someone to explore the area: perhaps they'll be able to find whatever it was Mary decided was so important.'

'And if not?'

Sherlock shook his head, his lips pursed tight. 'Ideally, I would go myself, but there is no way of knowing how far the influence of our Greek observers reaches. Are they isolated to London, or have they spread further throughout the country? The risk of being seen is not negligible. If they followed me back here...' He trailed off, drawing his knee up to his chest and propping one arm on its peak. 'All this will have been for nothing.'

John looked down at his lap, shivering in the early morning chill that permeated the house. 'It won't go away by itself though, will it?' He scratched the side of his nose before sitting on his hands, his body hunched over as the excitement of his discovery flickered and died beneath reality's tide. 'I mean, what's the plan, exactly? That we remain here until Mycroft catches whoever is behind this?'

'No. They're too clever for that, and Mycroft is rather bound by the necessity of using official channels. More than anything, coming here has been about giving you and Rosie time to regroup. It gives us the opportunity to formulate a plan, rather than simply reacting to the most immediate threat.' Sherlock sighed, his gaze turning cold. 'Unfortunately, I suspect that whatever we decide to do may very well hinge on what's in that graveyard.'

Across the house, an angry wail stirred the air. John was on his feet in an instant, summoned on autopilot by his daughter and her needs. Behind him, he heard Sherlock dialling on his mobile, calling his brother, by his greeting. If Mycroft had been asleep, then Sherlock didn't seem to care about disturbing him, and John left him to sort out logistics as he scurried off to begin his day.

Breakfast appeared to be Rosie's second highest priority, after a nappy change, and John couldn't help the smile softening his mouth as he and Sherlock moved around each other in the kitchen, as easily as they had before Sherlock's fall. The addition of Rosie didn't throw out that old, half-remembered routine at all, and Sherlock took feeding her some porridge in his stride, despite the mess she made. 

'What if it's someone's body?' John asked 'Seems likely, doesn't it, considering where the coordinates point to?'

'Perhaps,' Sherlock conceded, smiling at Rosie as she gummed thoughtfully on the warm, sludgy oats he had offered her. 'Or at least a burial plot of some significance, though whether the soil hides a corpse or something else remains to be seen.'

'And how's Mycroft going to manage that one?' John popped the bread down, tapping a spoon against his coffee mug as he waited for it to brown. 'People get upset when you go about digging up the dead.'

'A route his team will not explore if there is anything else of significance at the location. More likely, I think the item of relevance will be above ground. Every code needs a key. Perhaps whatever is at those coordinates will help us unlock the rest of it.'

The toaster spat out its contents, and John spread a liberal amount of honey on one slice before putting it down on the breakfast bar near Rosie's highchair. 'I can do that, if you like?' he said, gesturing to Rosie who had decided what she really wanted was to mash her porridge with her hands.

'No, it's all right. She seems to be having fun, and it's not as if table manners are our highest priority.' Sherlock sat back, letting Rosie have her way as he nibbled on the toast, oblivious to the way John's heart skipped and twisted under his ribs. It was all so bloody comfortable and domestic. By all rights he should resent every moment. It shouldn't feel better to be here, in this strange house with Sherlock and Rosie than it had ever been with Mary.

God, what was wrong with him?

Swallowing back the bile of his guilt, John settled to eating his fill of the bounty on offer in the safe-house. For too long, his appetite had been negligible. He had fed himself for the sake of sustenance and little else. Now, flavour sparked across his tongue and the fragrance of food filled his nose. 

In some ways, it felt as if he were coming back to life after weeks detached from the world. Part of him tried to wave if off as grief’s natural progression. He'd had time to come to terms with what had happened to Mary, that was all. However, he could not dismiss the fact that it was here, in Sherlock's company, that he had taken the first step on the road to easing his despair.

'So, you reckon it's the gravestones we should be looking at?'

'Probably. Mary was a clever woman, well-trained and disciplined, with a vested interest in keeping her secrets buried not just from her enemies, but her friends as well.' Sherlock sucked honey from his thumb, his gaze distant and his frown thoughtful. 'It's what I'd do. Something hidden in plain sight. Something that requires specialist knowledge to even attempt to decode. Whatever she has concealed is valuable, at least to Mary.'

'And possibly to our Greek team as well.' John reached for a cloth, wiping porridge off Rosie's face with gentle strokes. She wriggled and complained, but for now at least she was captive in her high chair and too little to escape his ministrations. 'If she was a go-between for Norbury –' He swallowed, resisting the urge to shy away from his thoughts. ' – then she was a traitor, wasn't she?'

'Yes.'

John looked over his shoulder, not missing the careful neutrality of Sherlock's expression: judgement free. He doubted other people would manage to be so controlled when offering such an admission. 'I never thought I'd wish for the days when she was just an assassin.' He managed a choked laugh, sick to his own ears.

'State-sanctioned,' Sherlock pointed out. 'A soldier by another name in many ways.'

'Why are you defending her?' John wet his lips, busying himself with mixing Rosie some formula to make up for the porridge, most of which had ended up everywhere but in her mouth. He tried to keep his voice light, but the accusation bled through anyway.

Something clenched under his ribs: not anger, for once, but a different kind of sorrow. He thought back over the course of his relationship with Mary, at how often Sherlock had spoken in such a way as to ease John's ire with his wife. He had blunted the sharpest edges of her betrayals with reasons that, at the time, John had seized gratefully.

Now, in hindsight, he questioned every single one, and the past bled back into the present day in gruesome Technicolor: Sherlock shot, bleeding to death in Magnusson's office, his life slipping through John's fingers as he tried desperately to stem the flow. Even that, Sherlock had excused, and John had bought it because he did not want to consider the alternative.

He was a doctor, for God's sake! He knew how close it had been. Yes, there was a chance Sherlock would survive it, but the odds had not been in his favour. If John had been a couple of minutes slower... If the ambulance had not managed to storm the breach of London's nightmare traffic... He shuddered, the entire episode cast in a new and grim light.

'It's not Mary I seek to defend or protect,' Sherlock pointed out, his deep voice soft over the admission. 'It never has been. Since I came back to London, Mary has not once been my priority.'

John swallowed, his throat pulsing as he handed the bottle of formula to Rosie and made sure she had a firm grasp on it. His hands shook, and he turned to prop himself against the counter as he struggled with the enormity of Sherlock's quiet confession: a dozen or so words that said so much more. He should have known. He should have seen it at the time, and John cursed himself for his wilful ignorance. 

And how had he repaid Sherlock for his dedication? By blaming him for Mary's death because he was a convenient target. By expecting Sherlock to be faultless while the woman he loved revealed herself to be a stranger with a familiar face. By lashing out because he knew Sherlock would not crumple under the weight of his anger and guilt and grief.

Now, when every day brought new suspicions and revelations about Mary's past, Sherlock was still here, as stalwart as ever. He remained at John's side, not out of obligation, but because, despite everything, he was still John's best and closest friend. One he had treated abominably.

'Thank you,' he whispered, pursing his lips and lifting his head to meet Sherlock's gaze head-on. He would not shy away from this as he had so often in the past.

Sherlock watched him from where he sat. His gaze, so often scalpel-sharp, gleamed with sentiments that John did not dare name. He looked at John as if he could not imagine a life or a world where he would turn his back on him. Devoted in a way that took John's breath away.

'You're welcome.'


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Patience had never been one of Sherlock's virtues. Mycroft knew that well enough, but as the hours slipped by, Sherlock could not help but wonder if his brother was keeping him waiting on purpose. It would not surprise him; Mycroft did like to meddle. He had proved that long ago, and re-confirmed it when he sent Sherlock to this safe-house.

To John.

Not, he supposed, that he could blame him for the interference. Not when the result was this: a tentative rekindling of the friendship he and John had once enjoyed and a reclamation of the closeness they'd shared when they both lived in 221B. 

It was fragile, still, but changing with every passing hour. John's grief bled between them: a vicious, living thing that rose up to strike anew at unexpected moments. Yet each revelation about Mary seemed to weaken its ferocity, diluting John's misery into monotones of guilt and regret.

He wished he could rejoice in it; the way John was finally willing to see the woman he had married for what she was. However, Sherlock had been equally deceived. It hurt more than he liked to admit to realise that Mary's secrets went far deeper than he had thought. 

John was right: if they were correct about the role she played, then she was a traitor to her country. Perhaps she had her reasons, but Sherlock doubted they were any more convoluted than her enjoying the thrill of her deceit. She was much like him in some ways: happy to overlook the moral dubiousness of her actions in the name of seeking her own enjoyment and satisfaction.

The only difference was that Mary hid what she was, whereas Sherlock felt no such compunction. Everyone around him knew what they were dealing with. He did not allow them to harbour any illusions as to his personality. Mary went out of her way to conceal every unsavoury facet. That, he believed, was what John would consider her greatest betrayal.

For Sherlock, that was not the case. Everybody lied. People crafted intricate personas and used them to move through the world, elevating their status or getting away, sometimes quite literally, with murder. No, for his part, Mary's biggest crime was the unfinished business she had left behind: business that had now put John and Rosie in unspecified danger. 

Mary had been prepared for her death, adequately so to leave Sherlock a message on a DVD, yet none of it had hinted at what John would have to face as a result of her actions in life. She had offered not even the smallest hint that her history would continue to cast its long shadow over the future of the husband and daughter she claimed to love more than anything else. The more Sherlock dwelt on that oversight, the more he wondered what Mary's true motives had been.

Whichever way he looked at it, the events of Mary's murder did not make sense. There was some facet of it missing – something he could see only in shadows and hints, rather than solid outlines. She had stepped into the bullet's path. Had she known the shot would kill her? Had she been trying to spare Sherlock an injury, thus elevating his opinion of her, and gravely miscalculated? Or had she intended to die in that moment? And if so, how could she have deliberately departed life and left John and Rosie vulnerable to the consequences of her actions?

With a gusty sigh, Sherlock raked his hands through his curls, glancing at the clock on the oven. His back ached from hunching over the files and photographs. Lunch was a distant memory, and the light seeping through the windows had taken on the syrupy quality of late afternoon. 

John and Rosie had both kept him company on and off throughout the day, and for once the interruptions to his concentration were not unwelcome. In truth, they were a blessing. He had reached a dead end. Until Mycroft deigned to reveal what lay in wait at the churchyard, he was stuck.

'You'll give yourself a headache,' John pointed out as he ambled through, heading for the kettle with the single-minded determination of a parent needing some caffeine. 'All hunched over like that.'

Sherlock grunted. 'Too late.' A hollow pain drummed at his right temple, amplifying his frustration. If he were back in London, he would take to the streets. He would chase down contacts and comb the city’s alleys for answers. His restless energy would find an outlet, and he could at least comfort himself with the illusion of progress. Here, he felt caged, penned in by the four walls of the house. Wretched.

'Come on,' John clapped him on the shoulder. The contact sent a jolt of shock down Sherlock's spine: unexpected. 'Up you get.'

'But –'

'No, Sherlock. Ten minutes, that's all. Rosie needs to see some sunshine, and there's a walled garden through those doors.' John jerked his thumb towards the nearby French windows. He was right, there was a neatly manicured stretch of velvety grass and flowerbeds in bloom. Old grey stone blocked out the potential for prying eyes, and at this time of day the space was bathed in sunbeams. 

Grudgingly, Sherlock did as he was told, following John as he retrieved Rosie from her playpen and carried her through to the outside world, chatting happily to her about everything. She seemed to appreciate the change of scenery, and Sherlock could admit he understood how she felt. The air here smelled clean and fresh, lighter than London's dull, smog-tinged atmosphere. Insects buzzed among the flowers, and Rosie kicked her legs in a giggling demand to be allowed down to explore this new patch of the universe.

'Still nothing from Mycroft?' John checked over the grass with a wary eye before setting Rosie down. He sat near her with much grunting and knee-clicking, keeping watch in case she started to shove soil and leaves in her mouth. It wouldn't hurt her if she did, Sherlock mused, but he recalled from his own childhood that parents tended to get upset about that kind of thing.

'No. I assume that means there is nothing glaringly obvious at the location, so he is endeavouring to cover all the bases.'

'I'm sorry we can't go look ourselves,' John muttered. 'We'd have what we needed in minutes. You'd see it straight away.'

Sherlock turned his head, allowing himself a half smile at John's praise. 'I wouldn't be so sure. I doubt Mary left much in plain sight. The more I think about it, the more I believe she never meant for these encoded filed to be uncovered. Between the digital encryption and her own personal ciphers, they are very well protected.'

'But they were on the AGRA USB stick,' John pointed out. 'If we'd actually looked, we'd have found them.'

'Perhaps. However, I feel that we may have been overwhelmed by the volume and revelations of the other files. There is a slew of information pertaining to AGRA, and the encoded folder was well concealed amidst them: vaguely named without being nonsense and therefore suspicious. Easily overlooked.' Sherlock lowered himself to sit at John's side, indifferent to the stains he might get on his clothes. Plucking a daisy from the lawn, he tickled Rosie's cheeks with its petals, smiling at her laughter.

'Even if we had found it and questioned her, Mary would have had excuses ready. Ones that, in the end, she didn't need. No, they've been designed to be deciphered only by Mary herself or the truly determined.'

'Like you.' John looked at him, raising an eyebrow. 'Maybe that was deliberate. You know what Mary was like: she had fail-safes for her fail-safes. Always prepared. Perhaps she hoped that, if Rosie and I ever found ourselves in this situation, you'd have what it took to pick everything apart. She set you a challenge.'

_Give him a puzzle and watch him dance._

The idea of Mary predicting his behaviour rankled, though it hardly surprised him. She would have known that, if John were in danger, the matter would become his highest priority. She had realised he would throw his all at it. Maybe he was right and she had never intended it to come to light, but it could still have been one of her many back-up plans: her strategy within a strategy: a labyrinthine knot of plotting.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side, dismissing his train of thought. Analysing Mary's reasons would not get them anywhere. Her motives were as convoluted as her past, and impossible to prove either way. 

'Hey.' John nudged him with his elbow, settling his weight back on his palms and stretching his legs out in front of him. 'You'll figure it out.'

'Your faith in me is misplaced.'

'No, it's not.' John spoke with such certainty, as if he were writing the law in stone. 'I know you. You won't stop until you've got the answers, Sherlock, you never do.'

'There are some cases I've never been able to solve,' he pointed out, desperate to manage John's expectations.

'Maybe, but that's not the point. What I mean is, you won't give up. You won't turn your back on Rosie and me, no matter what.'

Sherlock blinked. 'No, of course not.'

John nodded at the confirmation. 'If the graveyard is a dead-end, you'll attack it from another angle. You'll pick at it until it all comes apart.'

'Or until we run out of time.' Sherlock frowned, turning to face John as the seriousness bled through his voice. 'They won't leave us alone forever. These people are likely to escalate. Previous experience suggests we have a week at most before they make their move. If they fail to locate us, they will come at us sideways. It's probable that they have already attempted to lure you out by burning your home. When it becomes obvious they have failed, they will try another method.'

'I know.' John shrugged, and for the first time there was something almost hungry in his expression: as if he longed for the inevitable confrontation in whatever form it took. Of course, with it would come an end, but Sherlock was not comforted by the notion of John racing towards some unknown finale. 'If it comes to that, we'll be ready.'

His doubts tangled in his throat, knotting like a briar, but he swallowed them back. He could not bring himself to dent John's confidence, not when it was something he so clearly craved. He had been struggling to keep his head above water since Mary's death. If false certainty was what he needed to stay afloat, then Sherlock would not be the one to take that from him.

'With any luck, we'll have the opportunity to make the first move,' he decided. 'If we can break this stalemate on our terms, we will have the advantage.'

Around them, the dappled sunlight dimmed, blotted out by the gathering clouds. They robbed the world of its warmth, and John shivered, reaching for Rosie and getting clumsily to his feet. 'I think it's time to go in. You, little miss, need a bath before dinner.' He blew a raspberry against Rosie's neck, and Sherlock winced as she screamed in delight. From the outside, it was a blissful scene. No one seeing it would ever imagine the pain and strife the two Watsons had struggled through – and continued to fight even now.

'I'm going to call Mycroft and see if I can give him the hurry up,' Sherlock decided, taking a deep breath of the cooling air before rising to stand at John's side. 'I think we have both been patient enough.'

John offered him a smile of agreement, leading the way indoors and vanishing upstairs. Sherlock watched him go, unease settling low in his gut. He had already warned John that they were running out of time. Now he was sorely reminded that their Greek team were not the only ones that could escalate. John himself could decide to take matters into his own hands. That was the greatest risk. 

For now, his fear for Rosie's safety kept him grounded, if not content within the confines of the safe house. How long would it be before that was no longer enough? How long until John decided to finish it himself, one way or another?

Ripping his phone free from his pocket, Sherlock jabbed his thumb on Mycroft's contact details, shifting his weight back and forth as he waited for it to connect. It did not take long for his brother's flat tones to come across the line, the thinness of his voice suggesting he had expected Sherlock's call.

'All is in hand,' he said before Sherlock could utter a word. 'The British Government, sadly, cannot always be at your immediate disposal.'

'What else do you have to do?' Sherlock bit out, letting out a sharp breath. 'How long can it possibly take your minions to investigate such specific coordinates?'

'The information is being collated as we speak. It will be up on the secure server within half an hour. You know the one.' The soft chink of a glass being set down suggested his brother was imbibing: a brandy, no doubt. Sherlock tilted his head, wondering what could have encouraged him to indulge. Was it stress over something external and irrelevant, or did his concerns lie closer to home? 'I'm afraid it might not be the clear-cut answer you were hoping for.'

'What was there, Mycroft? Spit it out.'

'An old war memorial. Infrequently tended, but packed with names. None of which appear to pertain to Ms Morstan.'

Sherlock did not bother to correct Mycroft and remind him that Mary's last name was Watson. Perhaps it was uncharitable, but this Mary, the one who had plunged their lives into such chaos, did not deserve the acknowledgement of the family she had created. Not anymore. 'Your people documented it?'

'Every inch of it in high-definition photographs. They did not clean the stonework for fear of attracting undue scrutiny, but they ensured that nothing escaped their notice. You should have everything you need.' Mycroft's voice tilted upwards, questioning, waiting for Sherlock to fill in the gaps. Not that he could offer his brother much in the way of answers. 

'Give me until tomorrow morning, and I might have something for you,' he promised, his mind racing with possibilities. 

'Very well. There have been no developments of any note within London. In fact, there has been little activity from those who were watching John Watson at all. Whether they are awaiting additional orders or merely planning their next move, I cannot be certain.'

'They've not left the city?'

'No. Nor do they show any inclination to do so. They have claimed a new base of operations, which I am keeping under what limited surveillance I can spare.'

Sherlock frowned, ferreting that piece of information away for later consideration. 'Thank you, Mycroft. Let me know if there's any change.'

'Of course. Stay in touch, Sherlock.'

The line disconnected with a click, and Sherlock set his phone down on the surface. He was not sure what he had expected of John's pursuers, but somehow the notion of them remaining in London filled him with unease. 

He had hoped, perhaps, for panic and confusion in the wake of John's departure. However, this patience implied an element of strategy at play. They had not surrendered the upper hand and merely reacted to John's absence. Instead, they gave the appearance of biding their time: watching and waiting with predatory intent for John to re-emerge from hiding.

'Everything all right?' John shuffled into the kitchen, his head tilted to one side and his brow creased in concern. 'Bad news?'

'Not exactly. We should have the information from the graveyard soon. The coordinates indicated a war memorial. No doubt a large amount of text would be upon its surface. With any luck, Mary has used an Ottendorf cipher of some description.' 

When John wrinkled his nose, Sherlock smiled. 'More commonly known as a book cipher, where the numbers correspond to pages, paragraphs, words and sometimes even letters on the decoding document. Or in this case, monument. Normally, people will use a readily available tome, such as the Bible or dictionary as their key, but Mary instead chose a one-of-a-kind structure. Its nature meant it was unlikely to be removed, but its uniqueness would make the code impossible to crack without the information it offers.'

'And if it's not an otter-thingy?'

'Then we rethink.'

John nodded, running his fingers over his mouth in consideration. At his hip, the baby monitor echoed the sounds of Rosie's gentle babble back at them. Whether she fell asleep in her cot or not, a few minutes of peace and quiet wouldn't do her any harm. Besides, John needed these small snatches of time to himself: a brief moment to regain his balance so that he could ride the next wave his tumultuous life sent his way. With any luck, Rosie would take the hint and doze off. Her young mind and body relied heavily on sleep, and John would benefit from it, too.

'Mycroft was merely informing me that the Greek team has remained in London, and claimed a new base of operations. It was... not what I expected.'

'Determined bastards, aren't they?' John wilted onto one of the stools at the kitchen island, propping his elbows on the stone counter-top. 'Can't say I'm surprised, though. From everything you've said, they know what they're doing.'

'A small consolation. I'd rather have information on what they're planning.'

'Well, yeah, but at least this way we know the danger's still in London. They're not trying to follow us or figure out where we've gone. They're waiting for us to come back to them.'

'Which means they are confident they can bring about such a turn of events.' Sherlock scowled, dissatisfied with the idea of their forward-thinking. 'A notion which is not very comforting.'

The chime of his computer interrupted his ruminations, and he jolted into action, clicking through to the server and downloading the large, compressed folder that awaited him. 

A few minutes later it became clear that Mycroft had not been exaggerating. His underlings had done exemplary work, providing both distant shots and close-ups of the monument. They must have used a drone and a skilled pilot to capture every single name, and had thoughtfully made sure to number and reference them to form a complete picture, along with informing him of its exact orientation within the graveyard.

The cenotaph was a four-faced monolith of marble, left to turn grey and green with grime by the passing of the years. Yet the letters of each name remained unmarred, struck into the stone in eternal remembrance. Printing each image was a time-consuming effort, but organising them to adequately reflect the true layout of the memorial was, he knew, essential.

'You really think this will help?' John asked, standing back at the room's edge so as not to get in Sherlock's way.

'The coordinates must have led to it for a reason.' Sherlock examined the pictures he had taped to the kitchen floor, the better to recreate the exact order of each name. The fact that they had been listed alphabetically helped in that regard, but there was still scope for error if he wasn't careful. 'In the end, there is only one way to find out. Pass me the first page of numbers, and let's see if we can make any sense of it.'

John took the sheaf from the sizeable pile and handed it over before tossing Sherlock a pen. He caught it easily, pressing its sleek form against his lip as he considered the patterns before him.

'There are four colours to the numbers: red, blue, green and black – probably corresponding to the sides of the pillar.'

'But which one's which?' John shrugged, turning around to read some of the information that Mycroft’s people had provided. 'It says here that the memorial is aligned to the cardinal directions: north, south, east and west.'

Sherlock shifted from side-to-side as theories sparked across his mind before being dismissed just as quickly. Various cultures and religions ascribed different colours to the primary directions, but Mary had spent most of her adult life operating in a sphere that could be described as military. She would not go for an obscure, esoteric answer when she had a logical one to hand. 'North is marked in red on most compasses. The red numbers will be for the north-facing side.'

'And the others?'

Sherlock grimaced, looking through the page in his grasp for a block of code beginning with a red number. 'A matter of trial and error to determine, I imagine. We shall have to decode a small section and see which combination gives us anything intelligible.'

It was slow, gruelling work, finding the one string they could pull which would unravel Mary's encryption. There would be no quick answers for them. The minutes slipped past as Sherlock worked, his mind the pick with which to pry open the lock. Various combinations failed, but bit-by-bit, everything began to fall into place.

'Green is south, blue is east, and black is west.' He let out a breath, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the photographs. 'The colour indicates which side of the cenotaph to use. The first digit tells us the column, the second the line, and the one after the full stop marks the word.'

'And these?' John pointed at dashes before a digit, shaking his head in confusion. 

'As far as I've been able to ascertain, they imply that letters should be skipped within words.’ Sherlock clicked the pen, frowning in thought. ‘So here we have the number 465.6 written in red.’

‘Right, so…’ John rubbed a hand over his forehead. ‘Red’s the north side. “4” is the column.’

‘You’re looking for the sixth word in the sixty-fifth line.’ Sherlock waited as John counted, his lips moving as he skimmed his finger down the photograph before he paused. ‘Well, what is it? Does it make sense?’

‘Paris.’ John looked across at Sherlock. ‘The word is Paris. What next?’

They worked quickly, enthused by their success, plucking at the tangle until, at last, the skitter of Sherlock’s pen came to a halt. It was one line of many, but it was a start.

‘If I'm right, then the first segment decodes to “Paris bribes. Marcus Harper. Foreign Intelligence. Three Seven Two.’ Sherlock tilted the page he had scribbled on, showing the hectic scrawl of his deciphering efforts. 

'What does that mean?' John asked. 'I don't understand.'

'This is an itinerary of the secrets she has helped Norbury to sell and to whom.' Sherlock looked at John, softening his voice. 'This, I suspect, is what the Greek team hoped you would surrender to them.'

'But it's just a list,' John shrugged. 'What good could it do them?'

Sherlock let out a breath, his heart sinking in his chest. 'Knowledge is power, John, and Mary sold it to the highest bidder. The person who possesses this holds all that information in the palm of their hand, and with it, every government and criminal organisation in Europe, if not beyond. It's the sort of thing people kill and die for.'

John swallowed, shaking his head. 'Like Mary.'

'Perhaps.' Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'The question is, who will be next?'


	16. Chapter Fifteen

John had never seen Sherlock like this. Normally, when a case held him in its clutches, he was lost to the world, oblivious to even his most basic needs. He did not tolerate interruptions and he rarely asked for help. Especially from Mycroft. 

This time, things were different. He could see it in the tense line of Sherlock's shoulders and the way he moved: a tight, stalking pace back and forth, like a tiger trapped in a too-small-cage. He had spent hours plucking apart Mary's code, and each line they uncovered only cemented their certainties. 

At some point, when his aching body demanded it, John slept.

Sherlock did not.

Now he stood, bathed in the morning's insipid light with shadows pressed under his eyes and his hair in disarray. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and he tilted his head from side to side, as if attempting to relieve the tension in his neck as he spoke to his brother.

'How she came upon this information, I cannot be sure. Some of what I've unearthed is blatant: contact details and blackmail opportunities. Others appear to be locations: perhaps bank deposit boxes containing evidence.' He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, propping his palms on the kitchen surface and leaning forward, looming over the video call as if he could impinge his will on Mycroft through the screen. 'I have not decoded even a fraction of it. If it's all the same – all intelligence such as this...'

'Then it would be the biggest political incident this nation has ever seen.' Mycroft's thin lips formed a bleached-out line, his murky eyes grim. 'And you say Norbury was involved?'

'Almost certainly, at least in some capacity. I believe Mary acted as a go-between for Norbury, putting her in contact with buyers, but perhaps the trade was not so one-way as I first thought. Maybe Mary also began selling secrets _to_ Norbury, or she used her as a means to branch out to other interested parties.'

'You think it was a cooperative endeavour?' Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

'A lucrative one, certainly. A single secret from this file would be an embarrassment to the government involved, but all of them? Mycroft, it could start wars.'

'No wonder Dr Watson was being observed.' Mycroft rubbed his hands over his face, casting John a quick, apologetic glance over Sherlock's shoulder. 'Send the files to me. I have more manpower and can have them decoded in a fraction of the time. Let's see if we can't get to the bottom of this once and for all.'

John watched Sherlock, noting the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his nose. 'Only if you swear to me not to use it for political advantage. You cannot deny the conflict of interest.'

'Don't be difficult.' Mycroft sighed, waving a dismissive hand. 'My priority is unravelling this mess with Norbury and Ms Morstan. Besides, I don't feel you have much choice in the matter, Sherlock, not unless you want to spend a month or more decoding the documents and making yourself and Doctor Watson more appealing targets in the process. Anyone wanting to either buy the secrets or silence them will hunt you, more so than they already are.' 

'What about us?' John stepped forward, Rosie cradled against him as he lifted his chin in defiance. 'If this is as dangerous as you say, then are we still safe here?'

'I believe you to be in no more danger than you were when you left London. To the best of my knowledge, no one watching knows for certain that you have uncovered the information they seek, nor are they aware of your location.' Mycroft put his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth in thought. 'However, should you wish to take additional measures, I will see what can be arranged.'

John's heart clenched beneath his ribs, panic fluttering shadows like moth wings at the corner of his vision. It was not himself he was concerned for, but Rosie. Whatever her mother's crimes, she was innocent, and there was no more an effective bargaining chip for John's cooperation than his daughter's continued happiness and survival.

'I can look after myself,' he promised.

'I have no doubt.'

'But Rosie...'

Mycroft inclined his head, the austere lines of his face softening. At his side, John felt Sherlock shift nearer, his warmth a welcome seam against John's arm as he stood in silent support.

'Your concern does you credit. I do not think the danger to Rosie is overt, but the value of what you and Sherlock uncovered puts her at risk. She could become a tool in someone's plot to gain your cooperation.'

'I can't let that happen.'

'Of course not. I shall get back to you with possibilities. And Sherlock? Send those files over. Let me worry about the potential consequences to the political stage, won't you?'

Sherlock made a tight sound of aggravation as the screen went dark, his body swaying with restless energy. His nostrils flared as he sighed before doing something complicated on the laptop. 'I daren't send it by email; it's too vulnerable,' he explained, his fingers dancing over the keys. 'This way Mycroft has ten minutes to pick it up, only he has the credentials, and the files will be destroyed once he has a copy.'

'And you're keeping one for yourself?' 

Sherlock's glance held a secretive gleam: something shared between the two of them. 'My brother, by his very nature, will be just as interested in the state secrets I suspect the code contains as he is in the motives and machinations of those who seek to retrieve it. I have no intention of leaving this case entirely in his hands, John. Not when your safety is at stake.'

Heat fluttered beneath John's ribs, and he cleared his throat, ducking his head in thanks. 'He meant what he said about Rosie, though, yeah?'

'Undoubtedly. It's a wise decision on your part, though I know the prospect of being separated from her must cause you considerable distress.'

That didn't even begin to cover it, but the way John looked at it, there was no other logical choice. He would die for Rosie in a heartbeat, and if it came down to it – if someone threatened her unless he handed over the file they had found – there would be no thought of Queen and Country. He wasn't that selfless. Not by a long-shot.

'I don't want to leave her,' he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair and smiling at her giggles, 'but if this is as important as you think, then we're just a bigger target. It won't be for long.' He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and promising his trembling heart that much. 'We're going to bring this to an end, aren't we?'

Sherlock straightened from the laptop, turning to face John fully. He did not fob John off with platitudes or offer false assurances. Instead, he gave the question due consideration.

'If I were in your place,' he began at last, 'I would make preparations with Mycroft for Rosie's safety, but bide my time. There has been no indication that we have been discovered, or that the Greek Team has even thought to look outside London. It's unlikely they have the resources for a nationwide search. Something will happen in due course to lure us back to the capital. That is when you get Rosie to a different, secure location.' He cocked his head, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. 'Ideally, you would also take sanctuary out of harm's way, but I know you too well to expect as much.'

'Damn right. Don't even think about scurrying off on your own to try and make this better, Sherlock. If anything, it's more my problem than yours.'

The expression on Sherlock's face suggested he had expected nothing less, and he offered no argument as he straightened where he stood, his voice firm and strong. 'We're in this together, John, and we'll finish it together, but let's not make our move before we're ready.'

In his arms, Rosie began to kick, her patience with John's cuddles wearing thin. Gently, he set her down on the floor, watching her crawl towards the childproofed cupboards with a wary eye.

'So what do we need to do?' he asked. 'We can't give them this.' He gestured to the laptop, meaning the file they had uncovered. 'Assuming that's even what they want?'

'I suspect it is. I don't think it's possible to overstate the political and financial value of this. I believe that many of the entries are still unsold and therefore far from worthless. Once Mycroft's minions have fully decoded it, they will be armed with valuable information to encourage Norbury's cooperation.'

'So that's it?' John trotted across the kitchen, interceding before Rosie could try getting into any more cupboards and redirecting her attention with a flashing, singing ball. 'We're just going to wait for Mycroft?'

'Of course not. I intend to keep decoding this file, or at least key parts of it. A handful of snapshots promptly discovered will be far more useful to us than twiddling our thumbs until Mycroft's unravelled the lot.'

'What about me? What do you want me to do?' John gestured around the kitchen, which looked more like an explosion in a library than a place to prepare food. There were pages and photographs everywhere, some organised in haphazard timelines while others had been pushed aside in disgust.

Frankly, he suspected he'd be more hindrance than help, and Rosie certainly wasn't going to contribute much to the process. Yet rather than dismiss them both out of hand, Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table before inclining his head towards the images he had captured at the Greek team's base of operations.

'Take Rosie into the living room where she will be more comfortable, not to mention safer. Let her be your top priority, but if she gives you a moment, have a look through these.'

'For what?' John took the stack of glossy prints from Sherlock's grasp, already herding Rosie in the right direction. 'Anything specific?'

'Pay attention to the background: see if you can figure out when and where the pictures were taken. If any do not fit the standard pattern of home/work/Rosie's day-care, then set them to one side. I might have missed something.' 

Sherlock turned back to the code, and John held in a sigh. Not long ago, he'd thought himself immune to concern for Sherlock's well-being. He'd been harsh and jagged, brutal in his grief, but it seemed that all his disdain had faded away. Now he watched Sherlock break himself apart, stretched thin on the rack of this bizarre case, and felt only an aching gratitude that he had such a friend to call his own. 

Where would he be without him?

Gently, John corralled Rosie towards the living room, impressed by the speed of her crawl. It was tempting to pick her up and hurry her along, but she would not appreciate the assistance. Instead, he let her make her own way, murmuring words of encouragement before he settled on the carpet. 

No matter how often he tidied away her toys, there always seemed to be more, as if they multiplied by themselves. Now, he gathered her into his lap, checking she was warm enough before exploring new objects with her, talking through shapes and colours, smiling as she laughed at him in response. Eventually, however, her delight turned to indifference, and she wriggled from John's grasp, smacking chubby palms against the photographs where John had left them.

'Oh, you want to look at those, do you?' John asked, knowing full well that Rosie couldn't care less about them, but if she would be quiet while he studied them then he would take the opportunity. 'Let's see what we've got, shall we?'

It was hard not to be captivated by each glossy frame, and John had to force distance between himself and the subjects of the photographs as he remembered Sherlock's instructions. Slowly, he began to sort them into piles, splitting up the images by location until he had a mere handful: pictures captured outside the usual confines of their lives. 

Two were on the rare occasions John had found the energy to take Rosie to the park. One was of John walking, his shoulders rounded, trailing down one of London's many side-streets and half-praying for a fight. It had been taken early in his grief, when he'd just wanted to get _out_ , and his haggard profile was an ugly sight. Another was of Rosie and Molly doing some shopping on Oxford Street, looking at the bright shop windows on a grey dreary day, and the last one...

The last one was of Mary.

John stared, taking in the lines of a face that had not yet begun to fade from his memory. However, where he remembered charm in her smile, there was an edge of cruelty to the quirk of her lips. The clothes she wore hid some of the tension in her posture, but John could see it in the line of her neck: a soldier ready to fight. 

Perhaps everything since her death had coloured his vision of her, casting its long shadows, but John was not convinced. Was this Mary – the hard, cold one in the picture – the real thing? Even her gaze seemed calculating, not a warm blue but something sharp and harsh. Was he finally seeing her as she really was?

With a blink, he shook his head, drawing back to actually notice what he was seeing. Mary was walking down a street, her hands in her pockets but her shoulders straight. The photographer had caught her mid-stride. The wind blew her hair away from the line of her jaw, but it was her eyes that captured John's attention: staring straight at the camera, focussed and knowing. 

It could have been a coincidence: an illusion created by the shot being taken at just the right moment, but there was nothing absent in Mary's expression. She was not merely taking in her surroundings, but watching the photographer, her smirk hinting at an unspoken challenge. 

When had it been taken? Before her death, obviously, but not long before it. A week, perhaps? He scanned the pavement that formed her path, looking at the hazy strangers around her, but none of them played a role in the portrait. They were scenery, nothing more. She was the only one that mattered: the star of this particular show, and she knew it.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a shivering breath before offering Rosie a weak smile. She was playing with a book made of felt, sucking on it with single-minded purpose. Since there were no choking hazards, he left her to it. At least one of them was happy and secure in their little world. For John's part, he felt as if someone had pulled the rug out from under his feet.

He was not an impartial observer; he knew that much. Whatever he and Mary had been to each other, he could not deny that he was emotionally invested. Perhaps he was seeing things that simply weren't there, painting Mary in sinister shades of his own imagination. Yet before he could stumble to his feet and seek Sherlock's opinion, something else caught his eye in another photograph. One of him and Rosie at the park. 

Gone were London's dreary, urban shadows. The trees may be stark and bare, still stripped of their leaves, but the splash of green grass and blue sky brought life into the shot. He remembered the day well, bitterly cold. He'd bundled Rosie up to her eyeballs, turning her into a marshmallow baby while wearing nothing but a thin jacket himself. He'd been frozen stiff by the time he got home, but happy, in some ways. It felt a little bit like living.

There had been other people at the playground, braving the frigid elements in order to give their kids some exercise. He hadn't paid them any mind. He'd concentrated on her, walking around with her in his arms, putting her in the baby swings. It had been an opportunity to get some fresh air and to escape the stifling funereal atmosphere that lingered at home. 

John had been glad of it. He hadn't noticed anyone else, not really. Certainly not the photographer who had snapped this moment, carving it free from the flow of their lives to stand in eerie solitude.

Yet the picture itself was not what disturbed him. Instead, a figure in the background held his attention, catching his eye as his mind whirled and raced. 

They weren't in the playground itself, but outside it, loitering near an oak tree. Dressed in dark, non-descript clothes, it was only their inaction that made them stand out. Everyone else was in the middle of doing something, tending to their children or feeding the ducks, but not this person. 

John wrinkled his nose, unsure why the sight had captured his attention so thoroughly. It looked like a woman, from her height and build, wisps of dark hair escaping from under a fashionable black beret. Though not in perfect focus, he could still make out the stylish sunglasses on her face and the bold colour of her lipstick. Perhaps she was another of the Greek Team, but there was something in the way she held herself that set unease prickling down John's spine. Something familiar...

Glancing up to check that Rosie was content with her toys, he began rummaging through the other photos, looking for ones taken at around the same time. His heart hammered in the base of his throat, his thoughts little more than phantom whispers of uncertainty. He couldn't say what about the sight of the woman had unsettled him so, but nor could he ignore his instincts. Sherlock may sneer at them, but they'd been keeping John alive for decades. He'd ignored them too often, these past few years, and look where he had ended up.

With an explosive breath of triumph, he snagged free a couple more shots. One was taken the same day, back near the house. He was pushing the pushchair along the pavement, smiling down at Rosie in a crooked way that he knew did not meet his eyes. 

Yet he didn't care about himself. How could he, when the same woman from the park could be seen more than a dozen paces behind, slipping past someone walking their dog? She had turned her face a fraction, perhaps assessing the other passers-by, and John's heart sank as he stared at the line of her profile.

'No,' he breathed, putting the photo aside and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. 'No, it's not her.' 

He remembered when Sherlock had died, how for so many months any tall man in a dark coat had been him. A glimpse of shadow in the corner of his eye had John chasing strangers down the street, desperate to find the friend he had lost. That's all this was: him seeing the impossibly familiar. That couldn't be Mary watching him and Rosie more than three weeks after he'd buried her ashes in the cold ground.

'I'm seeing things,' he whispered, dragging his hands down his face and huffing as Rosie babbled in agreement. 'That's all it is.' 

Yet when he looked again, the impression lingered. There was nothing obvious, no definitive view of her, but he still struggled to see anyone other than Mary in the woman's face. The hair might be the wrong colour, and he had never known Mary to wear a lipstick in that shade, but it wasn't enough to shake off the creeping sense of recognition that filled his veins with ice. He didn't believe in ghosts; never had and never would. So where did that leave him?

'John, I think I've found something...' Sherlock paused in the doorway, his face creasing in a frown. 'Are you all right?'

John barked a mirthless laugh, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders in a shrug. 'I've finally lost my fucking mind.' He held out the photos, jabbing his finger at the figure caught in the background of the frame. 'Tell me that's not who it looks like. Tell me I'm seeing things.' His voice hitched on the plea, strained over the fretful flutter of his heart. It wasn't hope he was feeling. It should be, but it wasn't.

He watched Sherlock tilt the photos to the light, his silver eyes pinched in consideration. The pocket magnifier sparkled in his grasp as he put it to use, gleaning every last facet of data the photographs had to offer. Yet when he lifted his head, there was no pity in his gaze. He did not look at him as if he were a man seeing the illusion of his deceased wife. Instead, he appeared pallid in a way John hated, because it reminded him of that day when Sherlock plummeted from Bart's rooftop to lie, bloody and dead, on the pavement below.

'Sherlock...'

'I can't be sure.' Sherlock folded his long frame under him, sitting cross-legged at John's side: all angles like a deckchair. 'Perhaps yesterday, I would have reassured you that it was your imagination. That this couldn't possibly be Mary, but...'

'But?'

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips, his shoulders rigid as he watched John over their peak. 'I have been in touch with some contacts of mine: denizens of the dark web. I charged them with monitoring information on O Dio.’

‘And?’

He lowered his hands, gesturing through to the kitchen. 'It could be that I'm entirely wrong in my assessment that Mary is O Dio. Or, alternatively, the name may apply to more than one individual, but seeing these as well....'

John trembled, victim to an uncontrollable shudder that worked its way down from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. 'Just say it, Sherlock.'

'There is activity related to both the name and a few entries contained in Mary’s log, suggesting that someone with knowledge of the secrets she collected is still active. Either there is some third, unknown party involved in this mess, or…

John swallowed, fighting against the hurt that suffused the cavern of his ribs. The shattered glass fragments of his life had taken another blow, sharp edges jostling to cut at his flesh even as he struggled to get the words out. His lips felt numb around them, and his heart weighed heavy with the solid, brutal truth of it.

'Or she never died at all.'


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Sherlock wrapped steadying hands around John's biceps, his fingers digging in to the worn acrylic wool. John looked as if he had been punched in the solar-plexus, winded and hollow. His eyes were bottomless, glassy pools in his face, and Sherlock wondered how many more blows John could withstand. Mary may not have lashed out with her fists, but every new revelation was a hammer to John's bleeding, compassionate heart.

Sherlock hated her for it; the pain she caused, even now.

'Let me look into it,' he urged, his mind already racing with possibilities. Faking a death was no easy task, and not a job you could conduct alone. Mary would have had help, people she'd either charmed or bribed to assist her, and every single one of them was a weak link in the chain of her secret. All it took was a small mistake, and the truth would get out.

If indeed it was the truth. 

Nearby, Rosie gurgled, oblivious to her father's distress. Sherlock saw John blink at her uncomprehendingly, as if he could no longer fathom the pieces of his life. Pursing his lips, Sherlock caught sight of a faux fur throw over the back of one of the sofas. It was glossy, hardly ever used, and with a quick shake he pitched the heavy fabric around John's shoulders.

He reached out, manhandling John off the floor and guiding him into the depths of the armchair before flicking the nearby fire on with the press of a button. The mesh screen shielding the dizzy waltz of the flames would keep Rosie safe, and besides, Sherlock had no intention of leaving either Watson to their own devices. Rosie was not yet old enough to understand cause and effect, and John...

John needed him; his presence if not his reassurance.

With a grunt, Sherlock sat down on the floor at John's feet, leaning his back against the bold line of John's denim clad shins before arching his hips to pluck his mobile free from his pocket. The screen lit obligingly to his touch, and he dialled with nimble fingers, lifting the receiver to his ear.

'Hello, Bart's Mortuary.'

'Molly, I'm glad I caught you.'

'Sherlock?' He could picture her, her head tilted to the side, inquisitive, and her brow pleated in a flash of consternation. 'What is it? Is everything all right? Is it Rosie?'

'She is safe. _We_ are safe,' he promised, filling his voice with as much certainty as he could muster. Molly was a woman who took her friendships seriously. Mild-mannered she may be, but she has already proven herself fiercely loyal, and not just to Sherlock himself. She had helped John keep it together in the darkest days after Mary's... departure. Now, he knew, she would not baulk at his request.

'I need access to a copy of Mary's autopsy results,' he said without preamble. 'Your expertise would also be appreciated. I am aware you did not conduct it yourself.'

Molly made a choked, odd noise, and Sherlock wondered what she was thinking. 'Does John know about this?'

'He's right here with me,' Sherlock promised, glancing over his shoulder and feeling a faint flutter of relief. John was no longer gazing blankly ahead, but focused on him and the half-conversation he could hear. 'Some – discrepancies – have come to light. I just want to make sure everything is as it seems.'

'What kind of discrepancies?'

She would be picking at her lip: an anxious gesture she had never been able to shake, but in her voice there was no trace of doubt. She did not speak in the soft tones of the pitying, or with harsh disbelief. She merely sought answers.

'There is some evidence that suggests Mary may have manipulated events in a similar manner to the way I did when I jumped from the rooftop of Bart's.'

'You think she faked her own death? I don't know, Sherlock. What we did only worked because the people you needed to fool were at a distance. Mary died right in front of you.'

She had. He could have reached out and touched her. Yet memory, even his, could be fallible, especially during moments of high-stress. What he recalled may not be what he perceived, and what he had seen might not have been true. He had to be sure, for John's sake.

'Mary has proven herself to be more clever and resourceful than myself in certain areas,' he admitted. 'Molly, I wouldn't ask, but John needs the answers.'

The sigh that echoed down the phone carried a mournful edge. 'I hope you're wrong. I really do.'

'So do I,' Sherlock promised. 'You'll get me the report?'

'Give me an hour, and I'll see what I can do.'

'Thank you.'

He could hear the smile in her voice as she bade him farewell, disconnecting the call and leaving him free to dial the second number that had sprung to mind with these revelations. There were two key facets to any murder: the body and the scene. Molly could gain access to the reports on the former, but to discover anything more about that night at the aquarium, he would need to talk to Lestrade.

'Sherlock?' The DI's voice sounded rough at its edges, as if he'd not yet had the chance to grab a mug of that awful coffee he liked. 'What is it? Is everything okay?'

He repeated the same assurances that he had offered Molly, promising their continued safety. Lestrade's palpable relief made itself known in his gusty sigh. 'Jesus Christ, I thought... I dunno what I thought.'

'I need your help.'

'Really?'

'I require the crime scene photos from the night Mary was shot.'

Silence buzzed in his ear, thick with plenty unsaid. Judging by the lack of background noise, Lestrade was in his office with the door shut, perhaps leaning back against his desk or slumped in his chair with one hand over his eyes.

'Does John know about this?'

Their concern did them credit, Sherlock told himself as he clenched his teeth in annoyance. Besides, he could hardly blame Lestrade and Molly for extrapolating from his own past behaviour. No doubt they thought he was meddling where he shouldn't.

'Yes. I'd offer to let you speak with him, but he is... not currently at his best.'

'Yeah, yeah all right. Are you looking for anything in particular?'

'I'll know it when I find it.' In truth, there was nothing that sprung to mind that would prove Mary's death one way or the other, but he rather hoped that the fragments would come together to form a comprehensive whole.

'I'll email over what I can.'

Sherlock nodded, regardless of the fact Lestrade could not see him. His concerns that he would have difficulty accessing the reports faded. He had half-expected to need Mycroft’s help to overcome the pointless bureaucracy. 

Mary, or someone bearing her name, may have been buried, but Norbury had yet to be prosecuted. As such, he knew that Lestrade and, to a lesser extent, Molly, were taking a risk in handing the documents off to him. It was nothing they had not done before, but he appreciated the effort all the same.

'I'll let you know what I find. This whole situation may not be as clear cut as we had hoped.'

'As if it was ever that to start with. Just... be careful, all right?'

'We will.'

With a jab of his thumb, he disconnected the call and reached forward, discouraging Rosie from her excited scrabble towards the fire and instead trapping her in the perimeter of his splayed legs. She enjoyed the effort of getting out of her makeshift prison, cooing and giggling as she wriggled and rolled. 

Behind him, John's silence continued, thick and bottomless. He did not shift his weight, and each breath sounded too sharp and short, painful to the ear. There was nothing Sherlock could do to help. Poring over the information they already had would only lead them around in endless circles, trapping them in dire supposition. He needed more data, and his only choice of action was to wait for it to arrive.

'Did she ever love me, do you think?' John rasped, his voice little more than a whisper. It sounded cracked down its centre, spent of all its strength. Sherlock shuffled around, making sure to keep Rosie hemmed in before looking up into John's face. 'Did she even care, or was I just ...' John shrugged, his shoulders moving in an unsteady jerk of indifference. 'Convenient?'

In cases such as these, Sherlock knew most people would fall back on reassurance. They would tell soothing lies in the hopes of easing their friend's emotional distress, but he was not "most people". When it came down to it, neither was John. After all they had been through, all they had shared and fought for together, did he not deserve the basic honesty of the truth?

'I don't know,' he confessed, bowing his head and reaching out to hold Rosie's chubby little hand. 'I thought, after that mess with Magnusson, the Mary we were seeing was the real one. Perhaps it was.'

'But it doesn't seem likely.' John's top lip curled back from his teeth, his pale face gaining a hint of colour as anger began to win the battle for emotional dominance.

'Maybe she had her reasons.' Sherlock placed a tentative hand on John's knee, his breath catching in his throat at the contact, platonic as it was.

'How can you be so bloody calm?' John shook his head, throwing up his hands. 'Aren't you angry? Upset? Anything?' His fingers delved through that sandy blond hair, clutching at his scalp as if he was struggling to contain himself.

'No. Any wrongs Mary may have committed against me are inconsequential when compared to what this has done to you and Rosie.'

'She shot you, Sherlock.' John's quiet statement fell between them like a winning hand at a poker table. Definitive. 'I should have seen it then. Some hint of what she really was. I should have realised "assassin" was just the start.' A trembling breath whispered between John's lips as he leant forward, dragging the throw tighter around his shoulders before reaching out and stroking Rosie's wispy curls. 'It should have been the end of it for us: unforgivable. Instead...'

'Instead, you stayed with your wife and the mother of your child, John. You worked to make things better between you; to build the life you both claimed to want.' Sherlock frowned, trying to find his way through this labyrinthine conversation. 'No blame can rest with you.'

'Can't it?' John huffed a mirthless laugh, his lips wrenching to one side. 'Sherlock, I chose her. You said it yourself. I _chose_ her, and it turns out she's – whatever she is: assassins, traitor, alive or dead.'

'And if she _is_ alive?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'If she did fake her own demise, would you forgive her as you did me?'

'No.' 

The answer came like a gunshot, quick and brutal.

'Not even if it was to keep you safe?'

John's jaw worked as if he were chewing over the bile of his words, but when he lifted his gaze to Sherlock's, there was no doubt. 'What you did – it was because of Moriarty. He manipulated you; played you until there was no other choice. Mary…'

His voice strained over the name, and he swallowed. 'No one forced her to turn traitor; I know her too well to believe that. She made her bed, and now we’re the ones who have to fucking lie in it. Me. Rosie. We’re just… collateral damage.’

A sob pulsed in John’s throat, and he put his hand over his mouth, stifling it behind his knuckles as a tear tumbled over his lashes. It was another breach in the dam, even Sherlock could see that much, and he gently set Rosie aside, making sure she was safe before climbing to his feet and pulling John from the chair and into his embrace.

Perhaps it should have been jarring – an erosion of all their faltering boundaries – but as he tucked John under his chin and wrapped his arms around John's back, all he could think of was how right it felt to offer him such comfort. John was a man of great strength, but Sherlock could never begrudge him support on those rare occasions that it failed. 

Now, not for the first time since they came to the safe-house, he held John as he shook his way through a fresh surge of grief. Whether Mary had orchestrated the illusion of her demise or not, John's love for her lay dead. Any vestiges of it, Sherlock suspected, were quickly warping into something spiteful and cold. There would be no forgiveness for Mary Morstan. Not after this.

Good.

Sherlock let out a breath, pursing his lips at his own grim satisfaction. He did not dare look too closely at the sentiment. On the surface, it simply made the situation easier. John would always carry some connection to Mary, but if she was a matter of his past rather than his present, it at least brought them both some clarity of purpose. 

It meant Mary was no longer the focus of their efforts. Instead, this was all about John, Rosie and, to a lesser extent, Sherlock himself. A streamlined, uncomplicated equation. Beyond that, he refused to acknowledge the sad, hopeful flutter of his heart, forced into silence for far too long. It was not the time to reconsider the borders of their friendship; perhaps it never would be. 

Yet this, in many ways, could be enough. Whether John believed it or not, Sherlock considered it his greatest privilege to be here to offer him comfort and assistance. Solving crimes for strangers held little reward beyond basic accolades, but to help John in whatever way he could? That mattered more than Sherlock could put into words.

'Let's see what the reports tell us,' he murmured, rubbing a soothing hand down John's spine and up again, lulling him with the simple, repetitive motion as he turned them a fraction. With John's face buried in his shoulder, he was unable to watch Rosie, so Sherlock would take over that duty, observing her explorations as he continued to speak. 'Data, John. Speculating on Mary's actions and motives is useless without it.'

A jerky nod of John's head was his only response, and he peeled himself away from Sherlock with a gasp, his lashes spiky and his cheeks flushed. Cuffing at his face, he straightened his shoulders, reaching for Rosie on autopilot. 'What do you expect to find?'

'Faking one's own death is not a straightforward matter, especially not when the deed itself is done with at least one eye-witness nearby.' Sherlock lifted his shoulder in a shrug. 'I was as close to Mary when she died as you are standing now. It takes skill to be convincing at close range, and it is easy to make mistakes. That's what we need to look for: small inconsistencies. The devil is in the detail.'

'I suppose you would know,' John rasped, but there was no bite in his words. 'Just – find out the truth, Sherlock. At this point, that's all I fucking care about.' He sniffed, blinking still-damp eyes before lifting his chin. He looked drained and spent, but beneath that fatigue a bedrock of determination remained. Mary's secrets may cause John pain, every revelation may tear at his heart, but he would rather confront the facts and push on through than bury his head in the sand.

John stepped back, busying himself with all the little tasks people did when they were trying to distract themselves. He settled on the floor once more next to Rosie, putting on a brave face for his daughter as he reached for the toys at her side. His heart was not in it, his mind clearly too distracted to offer more than a facsimile of a doting father, but for now it was enough. Besides, it sent a clear message. Sherlock had been given a job to do, and that was where he should direct his attention.

Turning back to the kitchen and the waiting laptop, Sherlock tried to ignore the dense dread that lined the pit of his stomach. Recriminations raced around his head, reminding him time and again of all the reasons he did not get emotionally involved with the outcomes of his cases.

Sentiment was a veil that clouded the issues at hand. Ever since this started, he had wondered, deep in the back of his mind, if Mary’s death had been a ruse. As soon as he realised she had stepped into the path of the bullet, the possibility had been there, but he had ignored it.

How could he give it credit, when he had already seen how much John suffered? All his life, Sherlock had held the truth sacrosanct, but when it came to Mary he had turned a blind eye again and again, ignoring his doubts so that they could not even form into suspicions. 

Now here he was, lost in a mire of emotion. He could not begin to fathom how he could recapture his usual indifference. There was no option for him to remove his feelings from the equation, and the resulting uncertainty was unpleasant to say the least.

What did he want to discover? Would he rather Mary was innocent of their suspicions, and that she truly did lie dead and buried? It would be better for John, he felt. A way for Mary to retain some of her former glory in his eyes. Though perhaps even that was beyond their reach, now.

For all his shock, John had seemed more than ready to believe in Mary's trickery. He had not denied the possibility, or sought refuge in rage at Sherlock's expense. Instead, he had met the suspicion with weary resignation. It broke Sherlock's heart to see him worn down and spread so thin by the consequences of Mary's actions. 

With a sigh, Sherlock shook off his melancholy, settling in front of the laptop and checking his emails. Lestrade had beaten Molly to the punch, and Sherlock opened the attachments, narrowing his eyes at the crime-scene photographs. 

The camera's flash threw aside the veils of the aquarium’s milky blue light. Sherlock examined every detail, capturing them in the net of his mind as he began to build a picture. Of course, with eyewitnesses and a confession from Norbury herself, there had not been a need to do much in the way of constructinging a case. As such, it seemed the Yard had kept their investigations to the preliminary, devoting themselves to other cases that required their efforts.

That, Sherlock assumed, was why no one had examined the ballistics. It was unnecessary to tie the gun to the scene, since Norbury had been clutching it, still smoking, in her slender hand. Now, he stared at the bloody bullet they had found on the floor: A through-and-through shot that had lost momentum before it had the chance to hit the opposite wall. It matched the weapon, but doubt's weight clouded his brow as he considered the logistics.

The pistol Norbury carried was a low calibre firearm: fit for purpose, but he could recall the distance between the two women, the yawning space of the dark floor like an abyss. He doubted that the projectile would have had the necessary momentum to exit Mary's back as well as penetrate her chest, and even if it had, there was still the matter of the blood.

Not on the bullet or Mary's clothes, but on the ground.

Sherlock sighed, pressing the heel of his left hand to his eye as he scoured the photos, trying to find what he was looking for. If the shot exited Mary’s body through her back it would require a certain velocity to break through her flesh, and would bring with it a distinctive dispersal pattern that should be dotted on the dark carpet. 

He could acknowledge, perhaps, that it had been rendered invisible by the colour of the flooring, but that did not change the fact that he had been there. Right there. Mary had stepped between him and the gun, near enough that he could have reached out his arm and his fingertips would brush her shoulder. However, there had been no splatter staining his shirt whatsoever.

'Clothes,' he murmured. 'What about her clothes?' The files spun past, a flashing roulette skimming before his eyes until he found what he was looking for. Mary's blouse showcased its gruesome testimony on its front, the rusty brown stain damning in all respects. However, it was the photographs of the back that Sherlock cared about the most, and he snatched the copy from the printer before exposing the image to the glare of the kitchen's spotlights.

The bubble of his pocket magnifier distorted the picture, throwing pertinent aspects into shocking relief. There was blood on the rear face of the garment, implying an exit wound, but it was wrong. All wrong. The damage to the cloth was not indicative of a bullet, but rather a small explosive squib, which had left fragments of what Sherlock believed to be gunpowder residue singed into the fabric. 

More damning was the blood-stain. Mary had lain on the floor as she had "perished", panting her last, and yet it had been several minutes before her so-called death. A wound through the torso would have bled and drained from the thoracic space through the hole in her back, but the mark was not much bigger than the spread of one hand. There should have been more.

Again, doubt raised its ugly head, and Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to be sure. This was not the time for brash confirmations. John had asked for answers, and he would leave no stone unturned. He would get John what he needed, even if he had to stay up all night poring over the relics of Mary's final days. 

Only then, once there was no uncertainty left in his mind, would he acknowledge the likely truth. 

Mary had deceived them all.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

She wasn't dead.

Mary wasn't dead.

John blinked, giving a quick, angry sniff as he turned the words over in his head. Sherlock was looking over the files from the autopsy and crime scene now, but John didn't need the proof. He knew that she had faked it.

The worst part? He wasn't even fucking surprised. Furious? Yeah. Hurt? Definitely. But when it came down to it, he could more readily believe that Mary had staged her own death and left him to deal with the fallout than the alternative. 

The idea of her stepping into the path of a bullet to save Sherlock? In hindsight, it was ridiculous. The woman had shot him herself, not so long ago. Oh, maybe John could make up some rubbish about her changing her tune once she realised what Sherlock meant to him, but there wouldn't be a grain of truth to it. That would require a level of empathy he doubted Mary could manage.

How could she be so cruel? She knew how much Sherlock's death had weighed on John's shoulders and had been there when he returned. She had seen all the impotent rage and desperate, crushing hope. She'd witnessed his fury and relief mingling together into an explosive cocktail he could not to control. She saw what those moments had done to John, and she'd still gone through with it.

Rosie sat silent in John's arms as he paced back and forth across the living room, needing to burn off some of the roiling emotion seething in his veins. Maybe it would be better if he put her down, but right now it felt like she was the only thing stopping him from flying apart at the seams. 

How could Mary do that to them? She had ripped herself from their lives without so much as a backward glance. He hoped she regretted it. He hoped that she was tormented every moment with what she'd left behind. Not him. Not anymore. She'd given up any association with him when she'd gasped her "last words" in his arms, but Rosie? 

Not, he realised, that Mary could have any claim to her either, not beyond the basics of biology and genetics. Had she known the fullness of what she was sacrificing when she put on her performance, or had she thought they'd both still be there, waiting for her to step back into the hole she'd left in their lives?

'No,' John rasped, shaking his head and blinking to chase away the sting of livid tears. 'No.'

She could turn up on the doorstep begging for forgiveness and he'd not look at her twice. Not after this.

A small voice whispered that he'd done it for Sherlock. He might have resisted at first but he’d folded eventually. Yet Sherlock, for all that he was his best friend, had never made John any promises. He had not stood at the altar and made an oath to love and honour him. They had not started a family together. When Sherlock fell from Bart's, he may have broken John's heart, but he did not break any vows.

Or maybe it was simply that John cared for Sherlock more than he had ever loved Mary.

The truth sat, vile, on the back of his tongue, slipping down his throat to lie heavy like cracked stone in the pit of his belly. Guilt hemmed his lips in a tight line, and his next step faltered, falling still as he let out a hoarse noise. That was the reality he'd been trying to avoid since Mary's death. That was why guilty relief haunted his footsteps, because when it came down to it, he did not miss Mary nearly as much as he should.

Rosie whimpered, and John shook his head as he offered what he hoped was a passable smile. 'Sorry, love,' he murmured, jostling her in his arms. 'You must be hungry.' A glance at the clock made him wince. 'And tired. Let's get you sorted.'

He pretended not to notice Sherlock stiffen as he marched into the kitchen, viciously shutting down everything in his mind but thoughts of Rosie. It wasn’t healthy, but right now it was all he could do. Falling apart would not help his daughter, nor would his anger find a deserving target in the room. Sherlock would take none of its burden: of that he would make sure. He'd already suffered John's temper enough to last a lifetime.

Rosie's dinner was a hurried, forcefully jovial affair. John kept his voice light and sweet, encouraging her and playing games until she was laughing along with him. By the time she was full, clean and ready for bed, John had managed to push the whole issue with Mary to the back of his mind. It was not until he shut the door to the bedroom, the baby monitor clipped to his belt, that it all came rushing forward once more

Hot and cold flashed through him in quick succession, leaving him light-headed. His hands clenched into fists, and he swallowed hard as he reached for a fraction of control. He could not put a pin in any single emotion. It was all a glittering, monochrome kaleidoscope: jagged edges and colliding shapes. Never, in his whole life, had he felt so conflicted. It left him paralysed, standing at the top of the stairs and fighting for his next breath as an angry buzzing filled his ears.

'Sit.'

John jerked in surprise, staring at Sherlock. He hadn't even heard him approach, but now he ushered John backwards until his spine pressed to the wall. Slowly, he slid down it until his backside hit the carpet. His fingers plucked at the lush pile, anchoring him there, and he let his head fall back with a thunk as he took one deep breath after another.

'I'm all right,' he promised. 'Just – just...'

'Breathe.' Sherlock's matter-of-fact command was something to cling to, and John did as he was told, focusing on the whisper of air through his lips. 'Give yourself a minute.'

A mirthless laugh erupted from John's throat, skating the knife-edge of hysteria. He barred it behind his teeth, his jaw tense as he gave his head a quick shake. 'I can't do this.' He wasn't sure what he was referring to. Every fibre of his being wanted to not be in this moment, struggling to cope with the enormity of what he _knew_ Mary had done.

God, he hated her.

'I'm sorry.'

Sherlock's words washed over him, a weak balm, but a comfort all the same. John did not have to listen hard to find the deeper meaning to his apology. He wasn't merely regretful over John's current internal conflict.

'You found something, then?'

'Yes.'

Normally, Sherlock was quick to give voice to all the little clues he had unearthed, but this time he held his tongue. John appreciated the sentiment behind his restraint, but it chafed at him: wrong in so many ways.

'Tell me?'

Sherlock hesitated before sitting down at John's side, hip-to-hip, the pair of them with their backs to the wall: and wasn't that symbolic of how John felt? Cornered and trapped. Yet Sherlock did not offer him weary little platitudes. He did not even question whether John was certain. He simply began to outline everything he had found, his deep voice a comfort all its own.

He talked about the gun calibre and the damage to Mary's body, the inconsistency of the bloodstains and the residue on her shirt. With every theory he outlined, John's heart sank a little further. How many times had they both fallen for Mary's ploys because they had refused to look beneath the surface? Now, history repeated itself, and John was left feeling like a fool.

'How did people miss this? The police and everyone else?' 

'They had a culprit and an eye-witness. There was no need to examine the evidence in any great detail. I suspect no autopsy ever took place. The documents are likely to be forged to align with the story Mary wished to convey.'

John grimaced. 'She orchestrated the whole thing, then?'

'Yes. Her and Norbury. The bullet that struck her was a blank. A ruptured blood pack on the front and back of her torso gave the illusion of a wound that went right through her. Then she merely had to sell her demise to the rest of us.'

'I – I checked her pulse, though.' John rubbed his fingertips together, narrowing his eyes as he raked through his hazy memories. 'Didn't I?'

'Did you?' Sherlock shrugged. 'I imagine if anyone had thought to check, they would have found traces of a reversible sedative in Mary's blood. Perhaps something she dosed herself with before walking into the aquarium, or as she lay on the floor. A substance that could stifle her vital signs to almost nothing without doing long-term damage. When she was speaking to you, her last words were slurred. Perfectly expected in conjunction with blood-loss. It could have been the drug taking effect.'

'And the paramedics?'

'Were probably in on it. I do not have access, but I imagine if I could see the time of death and the signatory, they too would be falsified. Mary never got as far as a hospital. She didn't need to. The ambulance whisked her away, and that was that.' Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and crossed his legs at the ankle: a lanky sprawl at John's side. 'As I said, I am sorry. I should have been more thorough. Perhaps then, we would have been aware of the ruse much earlier.'

'It's not your fault.' John jerked his head to the side: a quick denial. 'Not one, fucking bit of it is your fault.' He turned to face Sherlock, nudging him with his elbow. 'This, all of it? It's all Mary and me. She's the one who faked her own death and fucked off to God knows where, and I'm the one who was so angry that I shoved you away.' He ran his tongue over his teeth, hating himself. 'What do you think I would have done if I found out you were poking into the details of Mary's murder?'

The twist of Sherlock's expression was answer enough. Back then, John had been looking for a reason to lash out at the world around him. He would not have thought twice about making Sherlock his target for daring to question what had become of his wife. They both knew that much.

'God, even now it feels like... like she's two different people. Like the woman I thought she was is dead and buried, but Mary herself is still walking around London.'

'A risky move, however you look at it.' Sherlock leaned forward, propping his elbows on his raised knees. 'It makes no sense for Mary to orchestrate all of this only to remain in the city. What she did was a form of escape, so why didn't she run?'

John shrugged. Maybe once, he'd have said it was because of him and Rosie, but he doubted it now. The idea that she might have had a change of heart because of the family she'd claimed to crave felt like nothing but a fiction: a bedtime story to chase away the loneliness. 'Something must have gone wrong,' he managed at last. 'Something she wasn't expecting.'

'Perhaps.' Sherlock sighed, his expression tense. 'I feel as if she is one step ahead of us: an uncomfortable notion.'

'Not unfamiliar, though,' John pointed out. Whatever else his wife may be, she was bloody clever. Not in the same way as Sherlock, all logic and deduction, but she was an expert in the art of secrecy. He shook his head to himself, still lingering on the strange, sharp edge between outright denial and raging accusation. He felt like he was swinging wildly from one to the other with every moment, with no stability in sight.

'What now?'

'Norbury.' Sherlock dropped his hands to his side, grunting as he struggled to his feet before stretching out his palm to help John rise from the floor. 'We talk to Norbury.'

John glanced at his watch, shaking his head. 'It's past dinner time, they're not going to just...'

'Yes they will. Mycroft neglected to revoke the temporary access codes he gave me. Or perhaps it was a deliberate omission. Either way, I suspect she may be more forthcoming with her answers.'

'Because of Mary?'

'Because of Mary.' Sherlock trotted down the stairs, his voice drifting behind him like banner as John shuffled along in his wake. 'Before, she held all the cards. She knew Mary was alive and that their plan had, to some extent, worked. However, I don't think Mary's continuing presence in London is something she is aware of. That's the problem with partners in crime. One wrong move and they can turn on you.'

Sherlock reached the kitchen, pulling the laptop towards him and setting to work. 'Also, she can offer us the final confirmation of Mary's actions and remove any lingering doubt.'

John shrugged. 'Is there any? You said yourself that the inconsistencies were damning.' 

'Yet not one-hundred percent. As the gunman, Norbury had to be part of Mary's ploy, if one existed. They planned and executed the scene at the aquarium together. We have hypotheses, but she has the facts.'

John fidgeted where he stood as he waited for the video link to connect, listening to Sherlock's terse conversation with the warden of Norbury's prison facility. The man did not seem happy at the lack of warning of the interview, nor was he convinced of Sherlock's authority, despite the authorisation codes.

'This is most irregular, Mister Holmes.'

'Forgive me.' Sherlock inclined his head. 'It is a matter of some urgency relating to an ongoing investigation. Please feel free to call my brother, Mycroft Holmes, if you need further verification.'

The warden's expression took on a pained edge, and John gave a faint huff of amusement. It seemed the man was no more keen to bother Mycroft than he was to oblige Sherlock, and he watched him dither before he made up his mind.

'Very well, Mister Holmes. If you give me ten minutes, I'll get everything set up. Dial in with your authorisation at nineteen-hundred hours.'

'Thank you.' Sherlock disconnected and drummed his fingers on the table, casting a dark glance towards the clock on the oven.

'What if he does call Mycroft?'

'Then my brother will confirm our story, at least if he knows what is good for him. There is a time for petty squabbles, and Mycroft is aware that this isn't it. Will you be all right with a late dinner?'

John nodded. His stomach felt like rock anyway. He wasn't sure he could manage even a single mouthful of food, for all that it had been hours since he last ate anything. 'Yeah. I just – I want to get this over with.'

He did not only mean the call with Norbury. He meant this whole bloody mess, from the Greek team watching him to Mary's unexplained presence, codes on memorials and international secrets. 

Normally, it would be the kind of case that had Sherlock jumping for joy, but it was too close to home for both of them to find much pleasure in it. Rather than filling John's veins with the fizz of adrenaline, it dragged at his bones, a weight around his neck that he longed to shed.

He wanted life to return to how it had once been. Before Mary's so-called death, before the bloody wedding... Further back than that, even. If he could excise Mary from his history like a tumour, he would. The only part he could never regret was Rosie's existence. Now, bitter with anger and disgust, he could not say the same for the woman who had been his wife.

The minutes dragged by as John paced the kitchen, bleeding off some of his restless anger in quick, ferocious strides. Sherlock stayed out of his way, perched in front of the laptop and apparently lost in thought. No doubt his mind raced with questions and possibilities. He would be merciless with Norbury, of that, John could be certain. There would be no circumspect questioning. Sherlock's intellect cut like a knife and his words would do the same. The question was, would Norbury have any answers for them?

By the time Sherlock re-entered his authorisation, John felt trapped in his own skin. Waves of heat crackled through his body, coiling tight and vicious in his joints until he felt he might explode. It took all of his self-restraint not to snarl when Norbury's face came into view. This woman knew what Mary had done – had helped her – and there she sat, looking supremely unconcerned as John's already ruined life collapsed further into dust.

'Mary Morstan has returned.'

John let out a tight breath, viscerally satisfied at the way Norbury's entire body jerked in shock. The blood drained from her face, her lips parted and her brow pleated. Behind her spectacles, her lashes fluttered, her eyes darting from side to side as her brain worked to adjust to this abrupt turn of events.

Not a single denial slipped free from her. There were no cries of "Impossible!" Instead, Norbury looked as if she had been punched in the gut, robbed of air and confidence in one fell swoop.

'I assume that was never part of your plan.' Sherlock's smile was full of teeth, gleaming white in the blue light cast off by the laptop screen. 'Tell me, did she pay you to help her stage her demise, or was the situation mutually beneficial?'

'You are mistaken,' Norbury croaked at last. 'She would not risk coming back.'

'Not for anything?'

'Not for him or the baby.' Norbury's gaze pinned John in place, but if she had been hoping to shock him, she would be disappointed. Oh, Mary might claim she'd left to protect them, but John doubted that was her real reason. He would not allow himself the foolishness of hope. Not again. Mary had broken every promise she had made to him, a fact he would not forget in any hurry.

'Then what?' Sherlock tilted his head to one side, attentive to more than Norbury's words. He would be reading her: the twitch of her expression and the nervous tics of her body, the dart of her eyes and the flutter of her pulse. Others in their past had known how to show Sherlock what they wanted him to see – Irene Adler sprang immediately to mind – but while Norbury was clever and cunning, she had been taken by surprise. It seemed she was not the most adept at thinking on her feet.

'I – I –' She pushed her spectacles up her nose before folding her hands back onto the tabletop. Her thin lips vanished entirely as she pursed them, her body held rigid as if she were resisting the desire to slump where she sat. 'She should not be here.'

'Why is that?'

'Because it was part of the arrangement. Because she was to leave and never return. I did this for _her_.' Norbury's voice trembled as she jabbed her finger at the ground, indicating her current state of imprisonment.

'Wrong.' Sherlock straightened where he sat, his gaze astute and his lips curled in a sneer of disdain. 'Would you like to try again?'

Norbury's jaw tensed; a muscle jumped beneath the strain as she glared daggers through the screen. Her fingernails beat out a quick tattoo on the surface of the desk before clenching into a fist, but her control was rapidly crumbling. Even John could see that.

'No?' Sherlock leaned forward, raising a condescending eyebrow. 'Then allow me. You were perfectly placed for selling secrets and influencing the outcome of undercover operations, but you couldn't do it alone. You needed someone on the inside, and that someone was Mary Morstan. For a while, it worked. Her role in AGRA continued, guided by your sinister hand where necessary, and she acted as an independent intermediary when it came to simple espionage transactions. Then, at some point, you realised you were no longer the one in charge.'

Norbury sucked in a breath but remained silent, her eyes burning.

'Perhaps you did not notice the balance shift. Mary is good at being subtle. She would have done it slowly. Maybe you paid attention when you realised it had become cooperative: the two of you equals. After all, Mary's a clever woman, entrenched in a world where she understands the value of knowledge. She had the skills, and you had the connections. 

'Except, before long, Mary had connections too. She needed you less and less. I imagine the situation would have become untenable before too much longer, but Mary made some kind of mistake.' Sherlock gestured with his hand, an indifferent wave of dismissal. 'Perhaps she declined an offer from the wrong buyer, one who would not take no for an answer. One who did not understand the unspoken rules of the trade. Suddenly, they had O Dio in their sights, and if they got to Mary then they would get to you too.'

'Not “O Dio”, Mister Holmes.' Norbury's eyelashes fluttered closed. 'If you're going to uncover the truth with such brutality, you may as well get it completely right. There was Amo, and Mary was...'

Sherlock made a noise of disgust, rolling his eyes. 'Odio, not O Dio.' He looked at John. 'It's Latin for hate: a matching pair to go with Amo.'

'Even traitors like a touch of poetry, Mister Holmes.'

'Trite,' Sherlock sneered, 'not to mention irrelevant.'

'Is it?' Norbury raised an eyebrow, her gaze dancing to John before she inclined her head. 'As you say. Continue with your theory.'

'Less a theory with every passing moment,' Sherlock pointed out. 'You had to rid yourselves of the unwanted attention, or at least get the both of you to safety. That was the deal, was it not? You would go to jail, where they could not reach you, and Mary's "death" would remove her from the equation. Hence the performance at the aquarium.'

'And it worked,' John rasped, speaking for the first time. 'We all fell for it, even me. Even Sherlock. '

'And perhaps that's how it would have stayed, if not for Mary's sudden reappearance, but she is back. So, the question is, what went wrong?'

Norbury looked as if she had sucked a lemon, all sharp lines of disgust. Her eyes flashed as she leaned back in her chair. 'In that, I am afraid I can offer you little in the way of enlightenment,' she retorted. 'As far as I was aware, Mary never intended to return to these shores. She was done with Europe entirely. I cannot fathom why her resolve crumbled so swiftly. In my experience, she was never prone to weakness.'

John agreed with Norbury on that score. Looking back, he could see that Mary wore emotion like a convenient mask. Even now, he could not be sure how much of what he had ever seen from her was genuine. 

'Really, Mister Holmes, while I appreciate being kept informed, Mary's return has little to do with me. It changes nothing.'

'Unless she were to testify.' 

John watched the last of the blood drain from Norbury's face, leaving her as pale as the wall behind her. 'She could not do so without condemning herself.'

'Yet it is another risk for you to consider. Your position is not as secure as you believe.' Sherlock leaned forward, his finger hovering over the button that would disconnect the call. 'With that thought, we shall leave you.'

'Wait!' Norbury's hand smacked the tabletop, her gaze flitting to the officers watched her.

John held his breath, his lips pursed as he shifted closer, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. They were almost close enough to touch, intent on the woman before them. Neither one of them said a word. John had seen how Sherlock worked often enough to know how it went. Sometimes, silence was the best path forward, as the suspect invariably tried to fill it.

'I cannot tell you much. I only know what Mary deigned to tell me, and it becomes clearer with every day that she kept her own confidence. However, I do have the name of the group who were watching Doctor Watson. Their proper name.'

John huffed, but Sherlock tilted his head, apparently intrigued.

Norbury brushed her hair back behind one ear, letting out a steadying breath.

'Harmattan. They're called Harmattan.'


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Sherlock prowled the house, his footsteps carrying back and forth across tiled floor and carpet alike as he stalked the depths of his mind palace. Norbury's revelation, in truth, had not been much, but as occurred in so many cases, sometimes one word was enough to bring things into better focus. 

He knew the name "Harmattan"; he had come upon them in his time eradicating Moriarty's far-reaching network, yet they had not fallen victim to Sherlock's swift and merciless eradication. Partly, it was because there had been nothing to tie them to Moriarty's endless games, but also there were some organisations that remained beyond his reach. Unofficial, according to global governments, but well-resourced and perfectly trained: the scalpels needed by those in power to cut the world into the shape they desired.

The "Greek Team" was a misnomer. In fact, to attribute them to any nationality was to make a faulty assumption. They acted above and beyond geographical and political borders, selling their services to the highest bidder. Extraction and capture. Espionage and sabotage. 

In many respects, they were not dissimilar to what AGRA had once been, except that they answered to no single government. The group itself had existed for longer than Sherlock had been alive, and in that time, they had collected their own knowledge – their own power. Enough to make them shadowy but influential figures in global events. 

And yet he kept thinking of the observers he had seen watching John and Rosie, and how unimpressive he had found their skills. From everything he knew about Harmattan, he had anticipated something more professional. While the resources at their disposal had indicated that they had plenty of cash behind them, he would have expected their actual operations to be more covert. Instead, they had been visible to anyone who thought to look twice.

Almost as if they had wanted to be seen.

Sherlock grimaced, shaking his head. Had he been looking at this all wrong? Had he assumed that John and Rosie were the targets, when really, Harmattan had known of Mary's deception and hoped to bait her into returning? Perhaps they had been unsure and open to all possibilities, unlike Sherlock himself. Maybe they were not certain of Mary's ruse, and had sought to either lure her from hiding or pressure John into surrendering what they wanted at any cost.

The taste of failure was a bitter wash across Sherlock's tongue, and he swallowed it back as he cuffed a hand through his hair. He had stifled his deductions in the name of keeping the peace with John. He had reacted instinctively to John's request for help, more fearful for his safety than intent on finding a solution, and he had continued to turn a blind eye to the possibilities that could have brought all this to a close.

Yet as sentimental and flawed as his response had been, Sherlock could not bring himself to regret it. Perhaps his caution had not been what the case required, but his compassion had been the answer to the rift in his and John's friendship. Now, though their relationship was still raw, possibly forever changed by all that had passed between them, it was whole once more. 

They had one another to rely on for strength, and while he could be sure of John's gun at his back and presence by his side, he had to repay the favour. He had to sort out the mess they had found themselves in, no matter the consequences to John and Mary's marriage: or whatever was left of it.

The question was, where to start?

'What are you thinking?' John's quiet voice cut through the air, little more than a whisper but shocking all the same. Sherlock had thought him busy putting Rosie to bed. Perhaps more time had passed than he had realised, because now John sagged against the doorframe. 

Maybe his leg was giving him trouble; he definitely appeared to be favouring that side, and Sherlock pursed his lips as he considered the best way to alleviate John's emotional state. In truth, there was not much he could do, but removing some of the helplessness that surrounded them might bolster John's mood.

'We need to go back to London.'

John blinked, his brow twitching in a frown. 'What? I thought we were waiting?'

'We were, when I was confident that you and Rosie were Harmattan's main targets. Now, I cannot be so sure.' Sherlock approached John where he stood, his shoulders lax with defeat. 'Mary's reappearance has the potential to change everything, and the best course of action depends on what Harmattan know. Either way, I suspect our continued presence here in the safe-house is trapping us in a stalemate. I'd rather you and I were the ones to break it.'

John nodded, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw before dropping it back to his side. 'Do you have a plan?'

'I have several, but first I want to take another look at the photographs you examined earlier. So far, other than Norbury's confirmation, they are the only connection we have to Mary's continuing existence. If they have anything more to tell us, then I need to see it for myself.'

John stood back, letting him pass through to the living room before following along behind. The fire still burned in the grate, offering a joyful atmosphere at odds with the bleak mood that seemed to coil around them. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, Sherlock flicked on the lights, chasing off the shadows before scooping the pictures from where John had left them strewn across the floor.

'She knew they were there.' John jabbed his finger into the top photograph: one of Mary as they had both known her. 'She saw them take this.'

'It could well have been the impetus to put her plan into action. Perhaps, until this point, she believed her secret to be safe.' Sherlock sat down on the plump sofa, allowing it to cradle his weight and sensing the cushions dip as John perched at his side. He did not crowd too close or block the light, but his warmth was a comforting presence all the same: something solid and real in a world where Sherlock felt increasingly adrift, caught up in the rage of Mary's storm. He jerked his head towards the pile of discarded images. 'Are there any more of her? Ones taken prior this?'

John fished out a couple. 'There aren't many from before she died. One a week for a month, maybe?'

'Which suggests that Harmattan were keeping tabs on her, at least to some extent. Yet it's hardly the frequency of a full-scale surveillance operation. The photographs of you and Rosie are far more common, especially after Mary's "demise."'

John's face shuttered, his eyes turning dark and hard as he acknowledged the slew of images that carried both himself and his daughter as their subject. The sheer number suggested they had been under twenty-four-hour watch, an uncomfortable thought for anyone, but one Sherlock could imagine was doubly vexing for a soldier like John. The implied threat within Harmattan's actions was impossible to ignore, but where they had sought to document every moment of John's life, they had not done the same to Mary.

'She was a known element,' Sherlock decided, looking down at the picture of her as she stared down the lens of the camera. 'To Harmattan, she was someone both predictable and trusted: an ally.'

'What makes you say that?'

'Her face. Her smile. This is not simply the expression of a woman realising she is being photographed. There's true recognition, but neither concern nor alarm. She knows the person holding the camera and does not perceive them as a threat. If anything, she is confident that she is the more dangerous of the two and that she has the upper hand.' Sherlock tilted the glossy paper to the light, allowing the reflection to play across the lustrous surface before he set it to one side.

'Well, Norbury admitted that Mary was Odio. I guess she was associated with people like this. They had a working relationship...'

'One in which Mary believed she held all the cards. I wonder if, in the end, that was her downfall. I've decoded entries from her logs to give us some indication of the time-frame of her activities. She started when she was still part of AGRA.'

'And did she ever stop?' John raised his chin in challenge. 'Was it all in her past, like she claimed?'

Sherlock bowed his head. 'No. From what I can tell, there is a steady decline in her gathering and trading these secrets, but she never ceased. Not entirely.' 

'Fuck,' John breathed, his shoulders sagging as if he were a puppet with his strings cut.

'Some of it could be an exercise in preservation: a way to disentangle herself from the web that Harmattan and similar organisations would endeavour to weave around her. When it comes to selling secrets, it doesn't take long for buyers to develop expectations. If Mary stopped cold, it might have caused alarm among interested parties. By slowly dwindling her contact, she allowed herself to step out of the spotlight of their attention.'

'You're saying you think there were others? Others like Harmattan?'

'No. Harmattan is different. They're a group of mercenaries associated with no known political power. I suspect any other buyers Mary found were tied to governments and influential figures. As such, they would have other avenues available to them to acquire information, such as their own secret services.’

Sherlock jabbed his finger into his own palm, emphasising the point. ‘Harmattan is unaffiliated, which means Mary could well have been their only informant. She was as much their golden goose as they were hers. It could have been a mutually beneficial arrangement that they did not want to end.'

'But she did.' John scowled. 'At least that's what we're meant to believe, isn't it – that she'd put that whole life behind her? Instead, she was still dealing secrets. For all we know, if you'd never exposed Norbury, she'd be doing it even now.' He sagged back in the sofa cushions, the lights carving harsh lines across his face. 

'That depends. From what Norbury said, their working relationship had already grown more distant.' Sherlock rubbed his thumbnail over his lip, considering the convoluted possibilities. 'Mary was in the process of pulling away from her, though whether it was because she intended to stop her activities or merely carry on independently, I cannot be sure. Whatever the reason, Mary and Norbury found one final use for each other: an escape route of sorts for them both.'

'Death made to look like murder, and a prison sentence.' John's mouth wrenched to the side in a twisted grimace. 'I think Norbury got the raw end of that deal. Mary gets her freedom and she gets, what?'

'Safety, relatively speaking. Norbury, for all her cunning, is a civil servant. She has none of Mary's training or allegiances, therefore I imagine she felt she wouldn't survive a "disappearance". Perhaps she and Mary could have faked their deaths together, but Norbury would be dead-weight: a liability at best. To maximise her chances of getting away, Mary had to cut all connections.'

'Including us.' 

Sherlock said nothing. Working through the likely permutations of Mary's actions was one thing, but he could not speak for her emotional motivations. John claimed that what he had done when he leapt from the rooftop of Bart's was a different matter, and perhaps in some ways it was, but the end result was the same. He had been gone for almost two years, and though he doubted John had ever cared for Sherlock as he had for Mary, there were still undeniable parallels.

Her family would have played some role in her decision, but how much of one, he could not say. An optimist would hope that John and Rosie's safety was her sole preoccupation and the driving force behind her plan, but Sherlock doubted that conclusion. After all, by faking her own death Mary removed herself from the picture, yet she did not appear to have done so in order to neutralise the threat to John.

If anything, she seemed to have made an effort at escape for herself, perhaps hoping that Harmattan would give up if they thought she was dead. Except surely she knew better than that? How could she work with such a group without realising that there would be consequences? The information she had stolen and offered to sell did not die with her, and John and Rosie became the next viable targets for the people who wanted to uncover its location.

No, while he could believe that Mary may have told herself she was acting in John and Rosie's best interests, in the end he doubted she truly believed it. She had been thinking about saving her own skin more than her family's well-being.

So why had she come back?

'What about the other pictures? The ones after her death?'

'They're not as clear,' John warned him, plucking free the pages and handing them over like a man handling a live serpent. 'I keep thinking maybe I'm wrong, but...'

'But Norbury confirmed our suspicions.'

aw'That doesn't mean she's the woman in the photos,' John pointed out. He sounded as if he were making excuses and apologies all at once, and a stab of sympathy lanced through Sherlock's heart. The events of the past month or so would be enough to make anyone question their judgement. John, who so often relied on his instincts, had begun doubting himself and his conclusions. Yet so far, they had been right at every turn.

Sherlock took in each scene with care. There were not many of probably-Mary after her death: only two, both taken on the same day. The pictures focused on John and Rosie. Mary, on the other hand, was out of range of the camera's piercing gaze. 

The detail was lacking and the hair colour was wrong. Sunglasses hid her eyes and her distance from the camera blurred her outline just enough, but he could see what had triggered John's recognition. Not the details of the woman, but the angle of her body and the way she stood.

'If this is her, then Harmattan are either unaware of her or are indifferent to her presence, at least at the time these photographs were taken. If she'd been recognised, the photographer would have snapped a clearer picture of her.'

'So, was she watching me, or them?' John rubbed at his left eye. 'What – was she just checking in? Making sure I was all right? Was she trying to work out if her bloody past would come back to haunt us?' He dropped his hands to his lap, running his palms down his thighs and clutching at his leg, no doubt attempting to stifle the ache that dwelt there. 'I wish I could say I thought the best of her, but...' He tilted his head, casting Sherlock a sideways, hurting look. 'It's easier to think the worst, isn't it?'

'Yes.' Sherlock turned where he sat as he set the photos aside. It seemed his answer had surprised John: perhaps he was expecting Sherlock to prevaricate and state issues with the lacking evidence. Maybe, in another situation, that's precisely what he would have done, but there was something in John's voice, an undercurrent begging for reassurance and validation. 

'I think we have both spent too long pretending that we do not know the full extent of Mary's capabilities. It was easier and more acceptable to believe what we wanted to see. To give her the benefit of the doubt at this juncture could have dire consequences.' Sherlock rubbed his hands together, feeling the cling of nervous sweat against his skin. 'She is ideally placed to emotionally manipulate the pair of us. Our one advantage is that her resurrection will not be a surprise.'

'You talk about her like she's the enemy.'

'Isn't she?' Sherlock swallowed, ignoring the itch between his shoulder-blades. This – what he was saying – was a risk. John's anger and misery were violent forces seeking to overturn his logic. Yet Sherlock could not leave this to chance. He needed to know that he and John were on the same page. They had to present a united front to whatever awaited them in London. They had to work together, or he suspected any efforts to bring this to an end would come to nothing.

He watched the clouds of emotion skate across John's face, a veritable tempest of consideration. The conflict did not surprise him. For all his vitriol, John was still a man who loved deeply. Even when wronged – and no one could deny that was precisely what Mary had done – he remembered the sentiments they had shared. He recalled what they had been to one another, even as he faced down the prospect of a ruined relationship scattered before him by Mary's own misdeeds.

At last, John pursed his lips, bowing his head in a quick nod. 'Yeah. Yeah, I guess she is. I mean, more the enemy than anything else right now.'

'An unknown quantity who has proven herself to have her own best interests at heart.' Sherlock searched for signs of understanding in John's face. 'There are shades of grey and nuance, but we must go into this firm in our ideas of our highest priorities.'

'Rosie.' John answered without hesitation. 'We need to make sure she's safe. Well out of range of whatever goes down.'

'And you,' Sherlock added. 'You are as innocent of Mary's actions as Rosie herself. The guilt, such as there is, belongs to Mary. Do not think otherwise. Do you understand?'

He saw the moment when John's uncertainties receded, replaced instead by the gleam of determination. Sherlock had not realised how much he had missed him until the last shadows faded, revealing the best friend he knew so well. It was not the flicked-switch of change. Rather, it was as if John came into familiar focus, choosing to put aside every reservation and nagging doubt. He had the strength to face whatever awaited them in London, of that Sherlock was certain, and it was a relief to witness.

'I understand. The same goes for you, though. None of this is your fault.' John held up a hand, stemming any protests Sherlock had to offer. 'Just, promise me that, whatever happens, whatever we do, we do it together? I –' John ducked his head, a faint flush cresting his cheekbones. He reached out, gripping Sherlock's right hand in his left and giving a firm squeeze, as if he could somehow press his words through Sherlock’s flesh and carve them in the bones beneath. 'I don't think I can do it without you.'

Sherlock looked down at the fingers clasping his, John's skin tanned against the pallor of his own. It was not a gesture shared in the adrenaline of the chase, nor in the well of grief. Instead, it was deliberately made, and Sherlock's heart surged in his throat as he gave his answer.

'I promise.'


	20. Chapter Nineteen

The worst part about returning to Baker Street was leaving Rosie. John realised it was necessary – knew he couldn't bring his baby girl into the viper's nest – but it still tore at his heart to watch her go. 

A pair of Mycroft's people buckled her into the car seat, making sure she was comfortable before retreating to let John says his goodbyes. Tears bit at his eyes as he pressed a kiss to Rosie's crown, promising her that they'd be back together soon.

'Be good, yeah?' he asked, knowing she couldn't understand, but needing it all the same.

At least Mycroft's people seemed kind. He'd feared they'd be distant and impersonal in their fine suits, but the pair – a man and a woman – were all warm, genuine smiles and honest reassurances. They spoke to John as if they understood and treated Rosie like a person rather than an objective. It put John's mind at rest, but his heart still cracked clean in two when they drove off.

'Mycroft won't let anything happen to her.'

John nodded, just once. He had to trust Sherlock's brother. 'Couldn't they have stayed here?'

'It's an extra layer of security. One that's for Rosie's benefit. Mycroft knows where she'll be and will have her back in your arms the moment it is safe,' Sherlock promised. 'He may not do sentiment, but he does understand family.' 

'Could have fooled me,' John muttered, not caring if he was being unkind. The logical part of him knew that Mycroft was right. He had taken endless precautions to keep Rosie out of harm’s way, but that didn't mean John had to like it. In particular, the bit where he didn't even know where Rosie was going chafed against his raw nerves. 'I hate this.'

Sherlock let out a quick, quiet breath as he opened the door to the car that awaited them: a black Mercedes. 'I'm not keen on it either, but Mycroft's logic is sound. If we are unaware of Rosie’s location, then we cannot compromise her safety. We cannot give up a secret we don't have in our possession.' He slipped in behind the steering wheel, starting the engine as John climbed into the passenger seat. 

'You make it sound like we'll be interrogated.'

'We're simply covering as many possibilities we can, John. Both when it comes to Harmattan and Mary herself. Rosie is a pressure point. This way, she is removed from play.'

John glanced over at Sherlock, taking in the hard lines of his profile as they pulled away from the safe-house. He looked like a man bracing himself to enter a war-zone. Except nothing so obvious awaited them in London. It would not be a clear-cut battlefield. Instead, it would be an arena of guerrilla tactics and subtle attempts to gain the upper-hand.

In so many ways, John wanted to demand that Harmattan do their worst. He longed to snarl his challenge from the rooftops and get the inevitable confrontation over with, but that would be a fool's choice. These people, whoever they were, had the power to put Mary on the back foot. She had faked her own death to escape their influence, or so they assumed. To underestimate them could well be fatal for everyone involved.

And then there was Mary herself. There was every chance that she would find them first. The thought made John's blood boil. Would he have the strength not to lash out at her if she did? Worse, he was not sure he would feel guilt for doing so. 

Enemies came in all shapes and sizes. Back in the army, insurgents were just as likely to be women as they were men. Part of him wanted to wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze – to punish her for all the pain she had caused him and Rosie – but another longed to remain unaffected. To show her once and for all that he was done caring about her.

'Are you sure about this?' Sherlock asked, his voice low in the confines of the car. 'I can –'

'No.' John gave his head a quick jerk, speaking before Sherlock could suggest it. 'No, you can't.'

'You don't even know what I was going to say.'

'You were about to suggest that you could drop me off somewhere out of the way until you've dealt with this whole Mary mess yourself. The answer's no, Sherlock. I'm not leaving.'

He expected at least a faint sigh of annoyance at his stubborn behaviour, but if anything, Sherlock seemed relieved. A hint of a smile curved the corner of his mouth, and his gaze flickered from the road to John's face for a split second. 'I did not think you would. Besides, your presence, more than mine, will drive our quarry into action.'

'And who's that? Harmattan, or Mary?'

'Probably both. Logically, someone should be watching Baker Street. It's the only bolthole they have left open for you in London after burning down your home. Once they see that we have returned...' Sherlock trailed off with a shrug. 'I imagine they will act quickly.'

'And if they don't? If they just keep shadowing us, like before?'

The wing of one of Sherlock's eyebrows lifted in thought. 'Then we encourage them. The first twenty-four hours back in London will be critical. Whatever occurs will allow us to make a number of assumptions about the situation. If we are confronted by the day's end, then we can conclude that they hope to retrieve the encoded file. It doesn't matter if they are unsure it is in our possession, it indicates that they believe we are the only possible angle of attack.'

'And if they don't?'

'Then I would be forced to question whether or not the file was ever their main goal.'

Silence fell in the car, interrupted only by the hum of the tyres over the road. John stared out of the window, not seeing anything of the skimming scenery. Even when they joined the motorway, he barely blinked, too lost in his thoughts to care for his surroundings.

His heart throbbed beneath his ribs, and the tension in his shoulders twisted with every moment. He knew that whatever they faced in London could change his life forever. There was so much unknown about the situation, and the only way to get the answers he needed was to face it head on. 

At least he still had his Sig. It was one of the few things he'd thought to bring with him when he and Rosie fled. Now it remained, locked safely in its case in the boot. Part of him longed to have it at his side, but there was too much risk of discovery. Besides, if Sherlock was right then they were unlikely to be in any danger until they found their way back to London. Here, speeding along the M6, they were just one car among many: made anonymous by the thronging traffic.

The buzz of Sherlock's mobile tickled his ear, and John glanced over, watching Sherlock wrinkle his nose as if considering the likelihood that it was his brother calling to interfere. Eventually, he sighed, arching his hips as he said, 'Pocket. You'll need to answer it.'

'Sherlock...' John rolled his eyes, shaking his head before dipping his hand in Sherlock's trouser pocket. There was no point hissing about how inappropriate it was. Sherlock had never cared about that kind of thing. John's fingers tingled from the warmth of Sherlock's thigh: a strong plane beneath the luxurious fabric sheath, and he sucked in a sharp breath before tugging free Sherlock's phone,

'It's Molly.' He connected the call, holding it to his ear. 'Is everything all right?'

'John! Oh, it's so good to hear from you.' She sounded genuinely happy, and John smiled, feeling some of his anger fade away. 'Is Sherlock there?

'He's driving. I can put you on speaker?'

'Please.'

'Yesterday, you said an hour,' Sherlock pointed out, raising one eyebrow as if he could make his displeasure known, despite the fact Molly couldn't see his face. 'I take it you ran into trouble?'

'You could say that. There is no autopsy report for Mary. None at all.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in brief consideration., They were in the fast lane, going just enough over the speed limit to shorten their journey without standing out from the flow of traffic around them. It was obvious that one part of his mind was focussed on the road, the dangers and the demands of the car, while another turned over Molly's simple statement. 'Death certificate?'

'Yes, the basics, but... Well, the documents I did find are forgeries. Things that claim that the body was referred to the coroner, which never happened – that kind of thing.' There was a whispering sound, perhaps Molly running her hand through her hair, and when she spoke again her voice had lost its quick, professional tone. 'John, I'm so sorry. I didn't even think...'

'Don't worry, Molly. None of us did.'

'Mary had a lot of help to get this done,' she explained. 'I've dug through what I can and made a list of all the people who might have given her a hand. Some of them are gone – they were probably never what they seemed in the first place, like the paramedics. I expect some were duped by fake paperwork and had no idea what was going on, but I think there were one or two officials who were in on it.'

'Probably got a kickback,' John grumbled.

'Email me the details, Molly. They could come in useful,' Sherlock ordered, easing off the accelerator as someone cut across the traffic up ahead, making brake-lights flash red. 

'Okay. I'm sorry I couldn't do more.'

'You've done plenty. Thanks.' John let his smile bleed into his voice, softening his tone.

'Molly, be careful.' Sherlock's words carried a low thrum of sincerity. 'We got Mrs Hudson out of Baker Street because we thought the flat might be targeted, but Mycroft said you refused his assistance.'

Molly sighed. 'I know. I'm fine. I only looked after Rosie a bit. I don't think they're bothered about me.'

'That could change. Watch out for yourself.'

'I will. I promise. I'll talk to you both again soon.'

They said their farewells as John disconnected the call, dropping Sherlock's phone into the cup holder near the gear stick and stretching out the ache in his left thigh. 'You believe they'll go for Molly?'

'I can't be sure. So far, they seem to have decided that she's irrelevant: a common misconception when it comes to Molly Hooper. However, as someone who watched over Rosie when you were unavailable, there's no denying she is on their radar. Her saving grace is that Harmattan do not consider her relevant to their situation, not even as bait for a trap.'

'But Harmattan aren't the only ones we've got to worry about. You think Mary...?' John trailed off, shaking his head. 'Of course she would. If she needed to, she'd use Molly to get to us, wouldn't she?'

'Undoubtedly. All my current theories suggest our absence from London somehow worked in Mary's favour. We were an aspect she did not have to control, one way or another. Our return might drive her to make an effort to manipulate us.' Sherlock shrugged, shaking his head. 'Of course, it's only a hypothesis. A disadvantage of leaving Baker Street is that the removal has rendered me unable to deduce potential outcomes in a timely manner. Most information I have received has been displaced from context.'

John frowned, deciding that was Sherlock's way of saying that he hated not being in the thick of it. He could relate. As much as the safe-house had offered them sanctuary, it had chafed not to be in London, ready and waiting to react to things as and when they happened. 

He understood the necessity, but he had been side-lined for far too long. Now, charging back towards the capital, he felt nothing like relief. Instead, every mile that passed beneath the wheels seemed to wrench the knot in his belly tighter. The restless jiggle of his leg had to be driving Sherlock mad, and the car seemed cramped and closed off: a straitjacket wrapped around him. 

By the time London's sprawl filled the horizon, John could bear it no longer, and he pointed to the services sign. 'Pull over. You must need to stretch your legs, and I want my bloody gun.'

'Are you sure?

He nodded, not uttering another word. He doubted Sherlock would choose the stealthy route to the flat. He'd park at the front door, the better to announce their return, and John was damned if he was stepping into the spotlight unarmed. 

Sherlock pulled into the far end of one of the great, sprawling car parks, ensuring their vehicle was sheltered so John could retrieve what he needed from the boot. It only took a moment, and John checked around, making sure no one was watching and no CCTV cameras were angled in his direction before loading the Sig and slipping it in his waistband. 

His jumper covered up its bulk with ease, and the weight of it did something to steel his resolve. He sucked in a deep breath of the cold, exhaust-tinged air, putting his hands on his hips as he watched Sherlock amble around the car, his phone clamped to his ear.

He was listening, rather than speaking, but the frown on his face was all John needed to realise the likely caller. Mycroft. It had to be. Sherlock never looked quite so annoyed with anyone else. 

He said very little, which made a change. Normally, he felt it necessary to have the last word, and John's stomach fluttered with nerves as he tried to read his expression. Before long, Sherlock bid his brother a curt farewell and pocketed his phone anew, taking a moment to digest whatever he had learned before turning to John.

'Rosie made it to her hideaway safely. She misses you, but is secure.'

'Thank God.' John closed his eyes, feeling some of his fear ebb. 'What else? He clearly had more to say.'

'It was about the information they decoded. He and his minions have managed to decrypt the entire file. It was much as we thought. An itinerary of international secrets, and a number of deposit points where evidence is stored. Mycroft is already getting together the relevant documentation to have some of those secure locations searched. He wanted to warn me.'

'Why?'

'Because once he begins, then both Mary and Harmattan will realise that the file has been discovered and decoded. It puts all the information that they both wish to keep for themselves at risk, and is likely to spur them into action. We need to be ready for whatever form that may take.' Sherlock opened the car door and settled behind the wheel. 

'So that's it? Mycroft's just going after the evidence regardless of what happens to us?' John clambered in next to him and did up his seatbelt, a frown furrowing his brow. 'Whose side is he on?'

'His own.' Sherlock sighed, steering out onto the motorway. 'Though perhaps that's not true. He apologised for the speed of his actions. However, some of what they found could have an immediate impact on the British government and the economy. They are seeking to reclaim it before it's too late. He did not share the precise details, but he would not act with such haste unless it was necessary.'

John grunted, folding his arms over his chest. The gun dug into his back, but he'd rather spend the next hour uncomfortable than bring it out into plain sight. 'I wonder what it is?'

'I doubt we'll ever know.' Sherlock switched lanes as London's skyline drew closer. The M25 carved its orbit, and the traffic grew thick and slow in the gathering dusk. 'It will take them a while to acquire the documentation they need: a few hours, perhaps. It gives us the opportunity, at least, to get home safely.'

'Think we'll have time for a takeaway?' John patted his belly, which had taken on the hollow, nauseous feeling that lingered between hungry and anxious.

'I expect we can manage that. It's probably for the best. I have no idea if there's anything left in the fridge.'

John frowned, trying to imagine Sherlock buying his own groceries. He must have done it before John came along and after he returned to London to live alone in Baker Street. The man had to eat _something_ , after all. Either that or he roped poor Mrs Hudson into doing it for him. 'Going back to sour milk and mouldy cheese, are we?'

'I left in rather a hurry,' Sherlock replied primly. 'There's a slim chance Mycroft has sorted things out, but I wouldn't hold my breath. He's been preoccupied.'

'If you're right and it all kicks off when we get back, then having some food in is a good idea. You might be able to run on an empty stomach, but I can't.' John stared out of the window, knowing Sherlock would not bring up his sporadic lack of appetite. He might not want to eat, but unlike Sherlock, John accepted that it was a necessity. He suspected the next few days would be hard enough without being half-starved as well.

It took them fifteen or so minutes to stock up on bare essentials in one of the large supermarkets on London's outskirts. A quick stop at their favourite takeaway left the car's interior smelling of Chinese, and John tried not to smirk at the idea of Mycroft wrinkling his nose when he reclaimed the vehicle. 

Sherlock had insisted they both retrieve the food; it maximised their chances of being seen. They wanted news of their return to spread to the right ears, and by the time they pulled up at Baker Street, John knew that more than one of Sherlock's network had caught sight of him through the car's open window. They would be spreading the whispers around the city like wildfire. Honestly, they'd be lucky for the chance to eat their takeaway at this rate.

Hefting the grocery bags, John waited as Sherlock juggled the luggage and the house keys, taking far longer than necessary to get the front door open. He made a good show of it. Anyone who didn't know him would consider it a genuine struggle, rather than a pantomime. 'Hurry up,' John grumbled. 'It's brass monkeys out here.'

'I doubt the flat will be much warmer.' Sherlock shouldered aside the door, hesitating before flicking on the hallway light. He was right, John realised, the entire building felt like a crypt. It had only been empty for a handful of days, but the chill had crept in. Well, bugger that. His life might be about to go spectacularly tits up, but he was not about to freeze to death in the process.

Sherlock was examining the staircase with narrow eyes, and he perched the takeaway boxes perilously on top of the radiator in the hall. 'Wait here,' he ordered, turning out the light and plunging them back into darkness. A puzzled noise died in John's throat as Sherlock flicked on the torch on his phone, sending a circle of white illumination drifting up the stairs.

'What did you see?' John whispered, setting the groceries down as quietly as he could, wincing as the bags rustled. His gun was a reassuring weight in his grip and he aimed it at the steps, letting Sherlock's phone paint targets for him.

'Something isn't right.'

John pursed his lips, restraining his questions as his heart hammered at the base of his throat. The door to the flat stood closed, but the beam of light under Sherlock's command steadily raked from side to side, checking each step. He was searching for booby traps, John realised, shifting his grip on the butt of his pistol: tripwires and the like. The thought had not even crossed his mind. Back in Afghanistan, sure, but here in Baker Street?

At last, Sherlock ghosted upwards, beckoning John along in his wake before lifting his hand, bringing him to a halt and gesturing at the top stair. A thin veneer of dust lay across the bare wood. There, outlined in its greyish veil were two footprints, not facing towards the threshold, but away from it, as if someone had peered down into the hall. 

Small feet, John noticed, and he'd seen no prints anywhere else. Whoever they were, they hadn't bothered to explore the rest of the dark, empty building. The question was, had they left, or did they still lurk inside 221B? No light trickled under the door, and try as he might, John couldn't hear any movement. However, that meant nothing, and his pulse tripped over itself as Sherlock reached for the handle.

It turned under his grip, the lock disengaged, and Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, meeting John's gaze and giving one, quick nod. They both knew what to do.

Sherlock shoved the door open, him and John moving in unison. There was no space to stand to either side of the top of the stairs, so their only choice was to lunge forward. Sherlock smacked the light-switch even as John jerked his gun in a sweeping arc across the room, snapping it up to take aim at the figure frozen over near the familiar, scarred wooden table. A laptop, one of Sherlock’s, cast its glow on her face, and furious bile burned the back of John's throat at the sight of the woman before him.

Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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